Ordinary
by TheTenthDoctorIsMyGuardian
Summary: Not all the Holmes children were like Sherlock and Mycroft. There was also Riley, who was always so painfully ordinary.
1. Black Marble

When I die, I want my body to stop existing and disappear off the face of the earth. I want no gravestones or ashes. I want to be gone.

I want there to be no trace of me left behind, so that those who have loved me in my years of living will have nothing to look at and feel sad about.

When I look at the black marble gravestone of Sherlock Holmes I feel a sadness words can't possibly describe, because I did love him, despite our differences. I always wanted to believe he felt the same about me. Now I'll never know, because he's dead.

There was a man standing beside the grave. I recognized him from the papers; it was John Watson, Sherlock's best friend. I didn't approach him. He looked like he didn't want to be disturbed.

He turned around, wanting to leave, but when he saw me standing there and realized I've been watching him he froze.

"I didn't hear what you said," I said automatically. "You looked like you were saying private things, so I kept too far to hear."

"Thanks," said John, sounding a little puzzled. He was shorter in real life than in his photos, I noticed. "Did you know Sherlock?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "I did."

"Oh," said John. "Were you a client, or..?"

"No," I said. "Sister, actually. I don't suppose he mentioned a Riley?"

"No," said John, looking shocked. "I didn't even know he had a sister." He looked disappointed that his best friend didn't tell him about a sister he had.

"Don't feel offended that he didn't tell you," I said. "He never told anyone if he had a choice, and I learned not to force myself upon him long ago."

"How come?"

"Um," I said. "I think he was ashamed of me for not being a sociopath. I mean, you've met Mycroft. It was very easy becoming the black sheep with them as brothers."

"Right," said John, in a tone that suggested that he wasn't quite sure if he believed me.

"You don't believe it, do you?" I asked. "What they say about him. That he was a fake."

"No," said John, without hesitating for a second.

"Good. Because he wasn't. My brother was many things, but a liar was never one of them."

John nodded. "You weren't at the funeral," he said. "Neither were your parents."

"I know," I said. "They didn't want to go. Said it was too hard, but I think they just didn't want to be looked at as The Fake Detective's Parents."

"What about you?"

"Sherlock was famous. He was liked and respected. Then he was hated. The funeral must've been packed with people, and I bet half of them weren't even sure they still appreciated him at all and the other half was already sure they didn't. I strongly doubt I could have handled the questions."

"It was," said John quietly. "What are you doing here now, then?"

I hesitated. "I just… I wanted to see the grave." I looked at it again. "It's a good grave," I added. "Sherlock would have liked it, all black and elegant. Of course, he'd say it was waste of resources and that gravestones didn't matter and that he had more important things to be concerned about, but he would've liked it."

"Yeah," agreed John. "I think he would have."

There was a silence.

"I should go," said John at last. "It was nice meeting you."

"Bye," I said and watched him leave.

When John was out of sight, I let out a shuddery breath. Very slowly, I sank to my knees by the grave. The ground was soft and fresh in a way that made my stomach turn thinking about my brother's corpse underneath.

"Hi," I said softly. "You can't hear me, because you're dead, and if you'd have seen me talking to a piece of marble you probably would've said something horrible and I would cry, but you're not seeing this, because you're dead." I sighed. "You just went and smashed your goddamn head, Sherlock. You really did. What the hell for? Why would you do something like that? _Suicide_? Really? That is so not like you. You never understood suicides, you never cared what people thought of you, you would never _do_ that. It doesn't make any sense. If I were as clever as you I'd have figured it out in a minute. Even less. I'd work out everything I need just by observing a fucking homeless guy or whatever it was you'd do." I paused. "There must be some rule against swearing in graveyards. It sounds like a thing, doesn't it?" Another pause. "This is where you're supposed to criticize my intelligence and complain I'm wasting your time. You'd probably add something humiliating and unnecessary into it all." I rubbed my forehead. "You were such a rubbish big brother, Sherlock. Honestly, you were. You could never let me feel good about myself. Not once. You always had to be better, to steal the tiny little bit of appreciation I would earn. You and Mycroft, only ever agreeing on one thing; that I was far too big an idiot to be associated to you. You loved that, didn't you? Making me feel like a worthless piece of shit? Fuck you, Sherlock. Fuck your memory and fuck this bloody beautiful grave. Why did you have to die, you jerk? Why couldn't it be me? You know it only makes sense. I'd only leave Mum and Dad sad by dying. You dying is worse than just our parents, it's also Mycroft and John and me and all the other people who still believe in you. But you had to go and jump off a bloody roof." I wasn't crying. I refused to cry in the middle of a graveyard. But there was definitely an irritating lump in my throat, just daring me to speak until my voice cracks and I lose control and begin to sob right there on the ground. So I stopped speaking. I just sat and studied the grave, wondering if when I die I could have one as nice as this one.

"You selfish prat," I said when the lump was finally gone. "That's what you are." I got to my feet, brushing the earth from my clothes. "We never believed in an afterlife, you and I," I said sadly. "But if there is… Well, see you in hell. I hope you've at least found Jack the Ripper and Redbeard. Though Redbeard wouldn't go to hell. He'd go to the great big doghouse in the sky."

At last, I couldn't stand the sight of the gravestone any longer. "Goodbye, Sherlock," I said. I turned around and walked away from my brother's grave, hearing footsteps behind me but not caring to look behind. The footsteps stopped and faded away, and so did the graveyard and my brother, for two long, long years.


	2. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

"What the fuck."

"Oh my god," said Catherine.

"No."

"Holy shit," whispered Piper, owed.

"Fuck off."

"Riley –"

"Go fuck yourself, Mila, that's not possible."

"But…"

"No, it's not, Piper, you're high."

"Riles."

"We're not doing this, Cat, we're not."

"Riles, are you alright?" asked Catherine, concerned.

"Nope," I said. "Not even a little bit alright."

"Maybe you should call your parents?" suggested Mila.

"Call my parents?" I repeated, not really understanding the words, not yet. The shock was clouding my mind. I couldn't think. Not yet. I looked at the telly again, where they were clearly saying impossible, stupid things, saying Sherlock Holmes was alive the whole time, which of course made no sense, it made no sense, it couldn't be, it was wrong, wrong, wrong. Then something about Mila's stupid, innocent words, the words of the girl who just tugged along as always, finally clicked.

"CALL MY PARENTS!" I shouted, louder than I intended. "Mila, you idiot! Why would I call my fucking parents, they don't know shit! Why would I call them when my brother ruled the world?"

"You mean Mycroft?" asked Piper, puzzled, as I scrambled for my phone and tried dialing the number – my fingers were moving too fast and inaccurately.

"Mycroft doesn't rule the world," said Catherine reasonably.

"I don't care, everyone shut up!" I yelled and hit the 'call' button.

Mycroft picked up the phone after two beeps.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" I shouted into the phone.

"Ah, hello, Riley," said Mycroft in that _stupid_ nonchalant way of his. "I've been wondering when you were going to call."

"What the fuck is on the fucking news?" I shouted, things getting clearer and clearer in my head as I yelled on. SherlockSherlockSherlockSherlock.

"There is no need to use such language, sister dear," he said calmly.

I nearly yelled again but stopped myself. I knew Mycroft really wasn't going to say anything before I relaxed a little, so I took a deep breath before saying, my voice shaking annoyingly, "Is Sherlock alive?"

There was a moment of silence in which my heart stopped, and my brain stopped, and the world stopped, waiting for him to reply.

"Yes, he is."

Oh.

My heart began to race so suddenly I thought it was going to burst. Billions and billions of thought and emotions went flying through my brain at the speed of light, so fast I could hardly hang on to any of them, and the world was speeding around me, spinning around and around. I felt my breath get caught in my throat and I let out a small, dry sob, regretting that my friends were around to see this.

"Right," I blurted hoarsely. "Okay. That's good. That's… that's really, freaking good. Um…" I could practically feel myself going completely mad. "Did you know?" I added, wondering suddenly. "For the past two years, did you know he was alive?"

This time, Mycroft's silence sounded tense. "Yes," he said, having the courtesy to sound uncomfortable.

"Oh," I said. "Did Mum and Dad know?"

"…Yes."

"Ah," I said. "Okay. Okay. So… was there any particular reason I didn't?"

I didn't know Mycroft was at all capable of feeling awkward, but he definitely sounded like he was at the moment, even though he didn't say anything. I could see him in my mind, looking for the words to tell me why I was allowed to believe my brother was dead.

"It was a secret," was all he could say. Pathetic.

"And you thought I couldn't keep it that way," I completed. "You thought I'd get drunk or high and tell everyone, didn't you?"

Mycroft said nothing.

I sighed. "Never mind that now," I said, still struggling for air. "Where is he now?"

"He's back to Baker Street," said Mycroft.

"Course he is. Well, if that's all, I'll leave you to your… government games, and I'll see you on Christmas."

I hung up the phone.

Catherine, Piper and Mila were staring at me wide-eyed.

"Guys," I said, "I really need a dose now."

I groaned and sat up on Catherine's sofa, rubbing my head.

In books, sometimes the main character would wake up and not remember recent events at first. I never had anything like it. So when I came to at my friend's apartment, I didn't have a moment of remembering last night's events. Mostly because after hanging up on Mycroft it all became a nice, big blur. A _really _nice blur.

"Cat," I whispered.

A groan similar to mine came from the floor. I looked down and realized Catherine must have blacked out right there, which meant nasty muscle pains for her later.

"What?" groaned Catherine, not moving.

"D'you think I should go see Sherlock?"

"Yeah," mumbled Catherine. The stuff did tend to take a while to completely wash out of her system in the mornings. "Tell him he's pretty."

"Oh, that's just disgusting," I declared.

"Your mum's disgusting."

"Right. I'm making coffee, you stupid junky."

"Your mum's a stupid junky," moaned Catherine sleepily. I rolled my eyes.

I got up and wandered around the place to find Piper and Mila. I let out a small yelp when I found them in Catherine's bedroom.

"Okay, you were right," I told Catherine when coffee was ready and she was sobered up.

"About what?" asked Catherine. "I mean, obviously I am, but which one are you talking about?"

"Piper and Mila," I said. "Just walked in on them. It's quite nice, to be frank."

"Oh, _finally_," said Catherine, exasperated. "The sexual tension was killing me."

"Obviously."

"So." Said Catherine casually. "What're you gonna do about Sherlock?"

"Go yell at my parents, I suppose. Then I'll go to London and yell at everyone else."

"But Riley!" Catherine edged me. "Sherlock's _alive_! Isn't that brilliant? I mean, shouldn't you be happy rather than high?"

"Oh, to hell with Sherlock," I said. "He hated me before dying and he'll hate me after as well. This should mean nothing to me."

"But he's your brother!"

"And I'm his sister, and he left me," I said, surprising myself. "Didn't even tell his best friend I existed, then died, then came back… it's just not okay. I can't think about Sherlock being alive, not right now. First I'll blow off some steam, then I'll be just fine, probably."

"Apart from being a bisexual addict with brother issues, you mean," corrected Catherine with a smug smile.

"Fuck you."

"If you're not too busy."

I couldn't hold back a laugh. "That was _smooth_!" I accused her. "Since when do you do smooth?"

"Oh, come on, that was just too easy."

"Yeah, I guess it was." I agreed with a smile still on my face, though now that the joke was over, I returned to thinking about the serious problems I was facing.

"What are you going to do?" asked Catherine quietly, sensing the laughter was gone.

I sighed. "I don't know," I mumbled, defeated.

"Do you want to see him at all?"

I thought of that for a moment. "Yes," I said. "I really do. I just don't know how."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, firstly, how do you even get started on a conversation like that? 'Oh, hey, Sherlock. Had a nice trip wherever you were? Where were you, by the way? Also, why did you let me believe you were dead?' It just wouldn't work. And anyway, I don't think I remember him well enough."

"I'm not following."

"Okay…" I said, weighing my words carefully. "You know how your mum was a bitch?"

Catherine stiffened a bit. "Yeah," she said.

"And you know how when she came back after all these years you met up with her again, and she was still a bitch, but it surprised you?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, it's kind of like that. You were surprised because you remembered that she was completely evil, but didn't remember just how evil. You remembered _that_ she was awful, but not the reasons that made you hate her so much."

"So basically," she said, understanding, "you remember that Sherlock's a rubbish brother but don't remember it specifically?"

"Uh-huh," I said, sipping at my coffee. "So if I meet him, and he gets all you're-not-good-enough-I'm-much-better at me, I might get overwhelmed."

"Over -?"

"I'll start crying."

"Oh. That's not good, don't do that."

"Kind of my point."

"So how are you going to not get overwhelmed?" she asked.

"No clue," I said. "Try really hard not to? Anyway, I have to go, he's my brother."

"So is Mycroft," she reminded me. "If it was Mycroft, would you still torment yourself about the whole thing?"

That was why I loved Catherine. She knew me, and saw things about me I often didn't. "Okay, Sherlock's not just my brother," I said. "He's the brother I like, for all the good that's done me. Now, are you coming with me or not?"

"To see your not dead brother? If that's how you're planning on introducing me to your family I can think of better ways to do it… hang on, does he even know you're bi?"

"Oh, geez," I swore, realizing. "He doesn't, I came out after he was dead. Or wasn't. _God_!"

"I think we should wait a bit before introducing me," giggled Catherine.

"Goddamn it," I said, feeling dazed about having to go through the coming out process _again_.

I left Catherine's place, telling her to say bye from me to Piper and Mila when they sober up enough to wake up. I also asked her to take pictures, because I thought their expressions would be priceless. I sat inside my yellow Honda – I always had an uncharacteristic thing for yellow cars – and drove off home. If I was going to see Sherlock, I should at least get myself to look like I didn't just come back from a night of getting high at my girlfriend's… though knowing Sherlock, he would probably know anyway.

**A/N: Right, so first of all, huge thanks to all those who followed, favorited and/or reviewed. Getting this kind of emails from is my favorite ever thing in the world. Please feel free to review about things you didn't like as well, because I always feel like I should be getting more criticism.**

**This chapter was a bit longer than I thought it would be, but I think that's good, because I quite like how this turned up. What do you guys think about Riley's character? I sure like her, but I'm biased, so please tell me.**

**There was no Sherlock yet in this one, even though I thought there would be, but I'm pretty certain he's going to show up next chapter. I hope I get his character right, I always thought he was a complex one to write. Hopefully next chapter will be out sometime over the next few days. Till then, peace out.**


	3. Don't Get Emotional

I unlocked my door and walked into my flat. It was small and dull, because my income really wasn't the best and I refused to ask Mycroft for financial help (or any kind of help), but I liked it. I spent most of my free time at Catherine's anyway, so it hardly mattered.

I walked straight to my small bedroom, found some clean clothes to wear and went to the bathroom to check my appearance. I never cared much about how I looked, but these things were important with Sherlock. I really didn't want him knowing I did drugs, and really didn't want him to know I was dating a woman. I also didn't want him to know I missed him and that I'm happy he's not dead, though if you could tell something like that from one's clothes, I didn't know how to change it.

People said I looked like Sherlock when I was younger and was still sometimes seen with him. I could see the similarities now, looking at the mirror. I had his black hair, though mine wasn't as curly as his, and his eyes, though they were a bit darker. I wished I had his cheekbones, but at least I didn't get Mycroft's nose or something like that.

My phone buzzed in my jeans pocket and I pulled it out. It was a text from Catherine, with a photo of very awkward looking Piper and Mila. It buzzed again a moment later, and the text said:

_U on your way? Cat_

I rolled my eyes and texted back.

_Stopped home, don't want 2 look like a junkie_

Catherine replied immediately.

_Acceptable. Now GO_

_Fine. Jesus. We're not even married yet, and u r already bossing me around_

I texted, and her reply came immediately.

_U know u love me_

I didn't answer that. I did, of course, love her, I just had enough flirting for the moment and really had to go now. I couldn't trust myself at the wheel if Catherine's bloody beautiful face and sleek auburn hair kept tugging at the back of my mind.

I put on my boots, left my flat and returned to my car. Being the world's worst driver I had to use the navigation system for nearly everything, and driving to London was no exception. You'd expect me to have a functioning navigation system as I depended on it so much, but it really wasn't that way. It developed a habit of suddenly deciding it didn't know where it was, which was bad because I didn't know where _I_ was, either.

How long does it usually take to drive from home to London? No idea, but I definitely took longer.

It took me a while to find a parking spot, and when I finally did it was a street away, but I really didn't mind being delayed. Now that I was so close, I felt tense and worried. It reminded me of how I felt before my first cigarette, all these years ago, except it wasn't as bad then, because I was around my friends (it was all peer pressure, really) and they seemed to know what they were doing (they didn't have a clue). Now I was alone, and there was no one looking confident and laughing, saying it was all right.

I walked slowly, carefully, taking my time. I wondered if Mum and Dad talked to him yet. I wondered why they didn't call me. Maybe they thought it would be too awkward and decided to just wait a bit with it, which was probably a good idea. I was still pissed, and the conversation would probably not go well.

When I reached the black door of 221B Baker Street, I paused. I never really saw that door before. Sherlock certainly never invited me to his flat, and I was too stubborn to ask. I remembered regretting that a lot. Now I was just annoyed at him for being an arse. I noticed the knocker was crooked. I considered fixing it, but decided against it – it felt rude for some reason.

I opened the door and walked up the stairs, holding the railing. The door to Sherlock's home was suddenly right in front of me, and I knocked too quickly, before really having the time to process what was going on. I should have waited a moment before knocking. I should have thought of what I was going to say first. Then again, it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. I probably would have forgotten everything the moment the door opened. Probably.

It wasn't Sherlock who opened the door. It was John. I remembered him from the graveyard. I remembered thinking he looked sad, broken. He didn't look like that anymore.

He seemed surprised to see me, but he got over it quickly and said, "Hi."

"Hey," I said. "Is Sherlock here?"

"Um, yeah," said John, awkwardly, and opened the door wider to let me in. I smiled at him politely. I may have been a junkie, but I wasn't rude. Not usually, anyway. Not for no reason.

My smile froze on my face when I walked in. I hardly noticed the flat; everything was concentrated on Sherlock. He didn't look different from when I last saw him, which was years ago. Maybe more heavily built, but no real difference in the face and the body of my brother. He was sitting in an armchair in the middle of the apartment, holding a violin. Sherlock didn't acknowledge my presence at all. I decided not to think about that at the moment; there would be plenty of time to being sad later. Right now, I had something to do.

"Sherlock," I said.

"Riley," he replied, letting me know he knew I existed, which was something, too, I supposed.

"I'll go get some milk," said John and left, forgetting his coat. I was grateful for that.

"Sherlock, you died," I said, feeling the infuriating tears building up in my throat.

"Didn't, actually," he said casually.

"I kind of figured that one out," I said, pretending this was a normal situation.

"That's a first," said Sherlock. His words stung. A lot.

"Why did you pretend you were dead?" I asked, feeling annoyingly emotional.

Sherlock shrugged. "Professional risks."

"Why didn't you let me know you were alive?"

Sherlock scoffed. "It would be incredibly careless of me to reveal a secret of such importance to one with average intelligence and drug habits, a habit I see you haven't left."

I remained silent while his eyes roamed me, and I knew he probably knew everything now, including where I ate six months ago. That was Sherlock.

"Are you sure about the girlfriend?" he added. "A bit short, isn't she?"

I gapped at him. Not because he knew about the drugs and about Catherine, but because I was right. I have forgotten how horrible he could be.

It took me about three seconds to choose my next move.

"Sherlock Holmes," I said softly. "Three years I haven't seen you and you still find the time to be mean to your little sister." Then I strode over and snatched the violin from his hands. Before he could react I threw it against the wall, hard. I didn't look to see the damage. I was looking straight into Sherlock's eyes, furious. His eyes were angry, too, but there were other things in them as well. Surprise. Exasperation. The kind of things you'd expect.

"It's quite amazing that while most people on the planet consider you to be a genius you can still be astonishingly stupid," I said, much more calmly than I felt. "You thought I couldn't be trusted with your little secret? You thought I'd spill the beans the first chance I got? You were wrong, and I don't think you've ever been this wrong in your miserable life. If that meant getting to keep my brother alive I would have stayed silent if I was being bloody _tortured_, you arrogant, self-absorbed idiot!" I wasn't sure when I had started yelling. "What were you doing for the past two years? Were you working out your _professional risks_? Well, I hope it was terrible! I hope you were in pain, and fear and misery. I hope you died every day, I hope you had your soul crushed, I hope you felt joy melt away from beneath your feet! I hope –" I stopped abruptly, my voice cracking. "Did you think about me at all? About John? About _anyone_? Or were you stuck in your own private bubble, even in death?" Sherlock opened his mouth to answer. "No, shut up," I warned him. "I don't give a damn about _anything_ you have to say. We had a bad relationship before? We're through with it now. If I'm ever dying in a gutter, I'll be sure to remember you're not the one I should phone. I'll call a fucking ambulance." I turned away from him, and swung the door open. I wasn't surprised to see John standing there. He must've been listening. I honestly didn't care. "See you next time you die," I snapped at Sherlock and stormed down the stairs.

Then I did the worst thing I possibly could have done.

I _tripped_.

It wasn't a small, barely noticeable trip. It was a spectacular, nearly professional dive down the stairs with lots of loud thuds echoing around the stairway.

"Shit," I swore and got myself into a sitting position, wincing at the pain in my ruddy ankle – I had strained it again.

I heard footsteps hurrying down the stairs and looked up to see John, looking worried. Sherlock was standing at the top of the staircase, an unreadable expression on his face. I created a scenario in my mind in which it was Sherlock who pushed me down. If he would have, his face would have looked exactly as it does now.

"Are you alright?" asked John, concerned.

"I'm _fine_," I snapped, feeling angry and ashamed. "Just a strain, happens all the time."

"What?"

"Rubbish ankle, it's easily hurt," I explained quickly, just wanting to get away. "I'm fine, I'm bloody used to it."

"Okay," said John, unsure. "Do you at least need help getting to your car?"

"No," I said with more force than necessary. "_Bye_." And I limped out the door, cursing my damn nonexistent balance and my not functioning ankle.

I always sucked at walking with a strained ankle, which was totally sensible, so when I finally got into my car, my leg was burning. I carefully slid it into the driver's seat and burst into tears.

I let myself sob quietly in my car for a few minutes. If anyone noticed me, they'd just think I got dumped or something. I didn't care. I just wanted to sit there, broken, just for a bit.

I called Catherine. I wanted to talk to her, even if I hated it when people saw me crying.

"Hello?"

"Cat?" I managed, my voice sounding like I was being choked.

"Riley? Oh my God, are you okay? What happened? Did you see him?"

"What do you think?" I asked through my tears.

"Oh, Riles…" I heard her sigh sympathetically. "Was it really bad?"

"He pretended I wasn't there," I said.

"Oh."

"Then he pretended nothing was wrong."

"That's not nice."

"Then I asked him why he didn't tell me he was alive."

"What did he do?"

"He called me an average-minded junkie. He also figured out I was bi."

"Was he mean about it?"

"Said you were short."

"Oh. What did you do?"

"Threw his violin across the room and yelled at him," I confessed.

"You go, girl," I could hear her smile. "What did you say?"

"That he was a dick and I didn't want anything to do with him, ever. Then I stormed out and fell down the stairs."

"You are impossible. Are you okay?"

"Strained my fucking ankle again, was a bitch to his flat mate… quite okay."

"That's a bit harsh, isn't it?" asked Catherine, and I knew she was just being reasonable at the moment, unlike me. "You kept saying he was your brother and that you had to see him and you loved him. You know, cheesy stuff."

I sighed and wiped my tears away. I didn't feel like crying anymore. "I know," I said miserably. "But I can't. He hates me."

"Why would he hate you?" asked Catherine. "If anything, you should be the one pretending he doesn't exist and not the other way around."

"Thanks a lot, Cat."

"You know what I mean."

"I guess," I sighed again. "I don't know. I was too slow for him. Not smart enough. Too…"

"Human?" suggested Catherine.

"Ordinary," I corrected her.

"Riley Holmes," said Catherine, serious again, "if you're really going to call me crying and tell me there's anything ordinary about you, you should have your fucking piss checked out because there is no way anyone can say that sober."

"Thanks for the encouragement," I said sincerely, "but really, it's kind of wasted at the moment. I mean, that was a great encouragement line, and now you can't use it."

"Urgh!" groaned Catherine in frustration. "Riley! Jesus! Will you cut the crap? So your brother thinks you're a moron – everyone's brothers think they're morons."

"Well, yeah, but then they do very nice and touching things, like showing up when your boyfriend is beating you up and punch them in the face. Can you imagine Sherlock being all protective-big-brother? Honestly, if he ever has kids…"

"So Sherlock's not a protective person," said Catherine. "That's okay, lots of people aren't protective. So he's being socially retarded. That's not _really_ his fault, is it? I mean, it's not like he can help it. Didn't you say he was a sociopath?"

"Yes," I admitted, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

"That's a psychological condition. He literally has nothing to do about it."

"Still," I insisted. "He's good to John. He's okay to our parents. He even puts up with Mycroft. And out of all the people on the planet, _I'm_ the one he chooses to forget."

"Well, violating his musical instruments and verbally abusing his friend isn't going to change that, now is it?"

"What would you have me do, then?"

"I don't know, I never had Sherlock as a brother!" defended Catherine. "I'm just saying, if you really want Sherlock to care, never seeing him again isn't the best move."

She was right, I knew. There was no sense at all in what I did and said to Sherlock. None. He always said you must never get emotional. He was right.

"Maybe you should talk to him again sometime," suggested Catherine. "I'm not saying go back there and apologize, because that's just lame, but you could give him a call sometime, right? It can't hurt."

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her it most definitely could hurt, even if not physically. But her main point made sense. I still didn't want to lose him.

"Fine," I said. "I'll call him next week. I don't want to sound like I desperately regret this."

"But you _do_ desperately regret it."

"Excuse you," I said, pretending to be affronted. "I'm never desperately anything. I happen to be a strong, independent woman."

"Uh-huh. Talk to you later, Madame Feminist. Can you drive?"

"I think so, I'll just be really careful."

"If you say so. See ya." And she hung up.

As I started the engine, I wondered if strong and independent women could have brother issues.


	4. The Time Flies

"Sherlock?" I said. "It's Riley. I don't know if you check your voicemails, but if you do, can you please give me a call? I…" I sighed. "I'm sorry. There, I said it. I overreacted and I shouldn't have thrown your violin. I don't know if anything I said bothered you at all, but if it did I'm sorry about that, too. Do you want to meet up sometime? Maybe have dinner or… something. I just…" I paused. "I want you to be my brother again. Do you remember, when we were little, we used to get along? Well, I miss that. I miss _you_. So just… call, okay? Bye." And I hung up.

There, I thought. Done. Now no one could say I didn't know how to apologize.

I really hoped Sherlock would call.

When I left London with a strained ankle, I thought it would take me a week to call Sherlock and ask to make amends. I was wrong.

I did try. I did pick up the phone now and again. Sometimes I got as far as dialing the number. Sometimes I even hit 'dial' and listened to the beeps. One time I heard Sherlock say "Hello" but freaked out and hung up.

I didn't say a word to Sherlock in six months, yet now I said this - tiny, hesitant, yet relatively daring and one hundred percent honest. I only left a message, but I would have said the same thing if Sherlock was on the other end. I knew I would have. So what changed?

I got an invitation to John's wedding.

I knew he was getting married; I was reading his blog, and he mentioned it in his posts once in a while; I knew Sherlock would probably be the best man being John's best friend; I didn't think I'd be invited seeing as I only met John twice for a few minutes, but I was, and I didn't know what it meant.

I wished I knew what it meant.

Overall, the past six months were good. I joined a band – we're a small bunch, and I'm just the bassist and sometimes vocals when Alex is too lazy to show up, but a small place with kind customers likes us, so we get to perform there a lot, and the extra money doesn't come amiss.

I also got a dog. I always wanted a dog, but after seeing what losing Redbeard did to Sherlock I decided it was best not to ask as a kid. I have named him Thorin, after the dwarf from Tolkien's _The Hobbit_, and he was basically how Thorin would have looked like if he was a dog – big, black and ridiculously majestic. He was still a pup, so he still had some growing to do, and he was already huge.

Thorin didn't seem happy in my small apartment, so I moved. I got a bigger place with a backyard. It took some effort to be able to afford it. The band made it easier, but I was now on rehab, which was going well, and now I didn't have to pay so much for drugs. Even like that, it wouldn't have been enough if it wasn't for the last but not least change of my life.

I was going to publish my first book. It wasn't an amazing book, and it probably wasn't going to be popular, but hardly anyone started with a success, right? And who knows, it might go better than expected. I did like it when things went better than expected. Everyone did, of course, but that didn't make it any less special from my point of view.

And then I got the invitation, and it just felt like everything that was ever wrong, everything that ever needed fixing, was going to be okay. I felt like I was on a roll of amazing things happening to me, and all fear abandoned me and I made the call. I really wanted Sherlock to call me back. I knew I wouldn't let him hurt me, because things were just that good.

I jumped when the phone rang. I automatically reached for it and pressed it against my ear. "Hello?" I said.

"Hi," said Sherlock's deep voice. I thought I heard him hesitate.

"Oh," I said, feeling a smile growing on my lips. "I'm sorry," I added, deciding that 'oh' was not nearly enough to say at the moment, "I should have called sooner, I just got busy."

I could practically see Sherlock raising an eyebrow. "Busy?" he asked. "For six months?"

"Okay, I wasn't that busy," I admitted.

"Obviously," he said, and I knew he was grinning as well.

"I am sorry, though," I said, too quickly for me to change my mind. "I overreacted. Sorry about your violin. How was that damage?"

"Not that serious," said Sherlock. "You missed all the important parts."

"That's good," I said. "That's… nice."

The other line was awkwardly quiet before Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Um, I might… have… something to… apologize for as well."

I grinned. "Blimey, Sherlock, are you under threats?" I asked, only half joking.

"No," said Sherlock.

"Not even from Mycroft?" I teased.

He sighed. "No one's making me say anything," he said, sounding exasperated. "And I'm not going to repeat that."

"Didn't think you were, brother," I assured him. "And even though that was a terrible apology, I think I'll take it. Now, isn't that where you're supposed to make a clever but irritating remark?"

"Well, Mycroft says you're on rehab," said Sherlock. I wasn't sure whether or not he was faking the casual tone.

"Yeah, I am," I said.

"And how's it going?"

"Good," I said. "Didn't go anywhere near that shit for months. I, uh… I'm really getting my life back together, and, well, I just kind of… have this one last issue I need to solve before nothing is wrong. I, uh… I want us to get along again, Sherlock. Just answer me this, Sherlock, please. Do you hate me?"

There was a short pause before Sherlock said, "No."

"Then why keep me a secret?" I asked. "I met John near your fake grave after you fake died, and he had no idea you had a sister. I have a feeling he wasn't the only one. Why didn't you say anything about me? Why didn't you say anything _to_ me?"

This time the pause was longer. "I don't…" Sherlock hesitated. "I didn't know _how_."

"How what?" I asked, confused.

"I didn't know how to talk to you or about you," said Sherlock.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked. "Sherlock, for most my life, you weren't there. You _sucked_ at big brother duties. Except that that's not true because you _were_ there, and you made me feel like crap. My childhood was all about trying to prove I was as good as you were, but I couldn't because I wasn't, and you never let me forget it. So don't say you didn't know how to talk to me, please don't. Please don't talk like you're the only person that matters because I grew out of believing that. Just tell me the truth in a way that makes sense."

"Okay," Sherlock said. "Okay, um… I didn't know you. It's been a long time since we had a proper talk and… I didn't know who you were. So I… deleted it."

"You _what_?"

"I –"

"Yeah, I heard you, I'm just having difficulties processing that," I said, shocked and hurt. "You _deleted_ me from your fucking head? Why would you do that?"

"It seemed logical at the time," he said. "I'm sorry," he added, and he sounded so sincere I didn't argue. "But I didn't know how you were anymore, I just remembered you were ordinary, like other people, and why would I talk to John about just someone?"

"Okay," I said, gradually calming down. "Okay. I can live with that. What changed?"

"What?"

"Why did you call if I was just someone?" I asked. "Why apologize?"

"Because… I remembered," he said. "I remembered you weren't just someone, you were Riley Holmes. Plus not many ordinary people would go around throwing violins then falling down stairs."

"Please don't remind me of that," I said, though I felt my heart rising in my chest, warm and bright. "Dang it, Sherlock," I smiled. "You're the best big brother anyone could bloody ask for, mental scars and traumas included. I would like to thank you for all the permanent damage you have caused me, because I would probably be a really boring person without it. I also think I love you, and basically if I'm ever dying in a gutter I'll call you _before_ calling an ambulance for some stupid, senseless sentimental reasons."

"Hmm, you might not want to do that, actually," said Sherlock, and this time I knew for sure the casual tone was fake. "Are you coming to the wedding, then?"

I laughed. "Of course I'm going, you moron. You giving a best man speech? Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Ugh, I still haven't written it," complained Sherlock. "It's going to be a disaster."

"I'll bring a camera, then," I guaranteed. "Just be your usual self, everyone will love it." I paused. "Or not. Never mind, scratch that last line, don't be your usual self. There are probably going to be children and old people and you don't want to scare anyone."

"How did you know I was best man?" asked Sherlock.

"I can figure out stuff, too," I said, smirking. "Though I usually leave that bit to you. It's very generous of me, really, since you'd have no job if I wouldn't have."

"_Riley_."

"Oh, shut up, you know I'm awesome."

"I am starting to regret having called you."

"No, you don't."

"No, I'm not," agreed Sherlock.


	5. Just Like Any Other Wedding

**A/N: Hey guys. Thanks to everyone who followed, favorited and/or reviewed, it means the world to me (seriously). I recently understood I have many ideas for many things in this fic and others I might write at some point and that I have no way of deciding whether these ideas are any good or not. So I started a blog on tumblr, where I will post ideas I have once in a while and ask for opinions. If you want, please search thetenthdoctorismyguardian on tumblr and you will find it. Warning: Ideas may contain spoilers if I end up writing them.**

"You've no idea where you're going, have you?"

"Shut up, we're fine."

"We're lost."

"We're not lost."

"Riley, just admit it," said Catherine, glaring at me playfully. "You have no idea where you're driving."

"I know exactly where I'm driving, thank you very much," I insisted, holding the wheel a bit nervously.

"Where's that, then?" asked Catherine.

"Somewhere we're not actually supposed to be going," I said. "See? I know."

Catherine rolled her eyes dramatically. "Will you just call Sherlock?"

"I'm not calling Sherlock for directions to John's stupid wedding," I said.

"It's not stupid," said Catherine. "And anyway, why not?"

"Because!" I said. "We literally only just made up after at least ten years of not getting along. _Over the phone_. I'm not calling him for directions, I'll figure it out myself."

"Yeah?" asked Catherine skeptically. "And how are you planning on doing that?"

"I don't know, okay?" I snapped. "You're not being very helpful, either."

"Well, what do you want _me_ to do? I don't know where it is, either! Can't we just stop and ask someone?"

"We're not asking anyone, I can do this on my own!" I yelled.

Catherine huffed. "You're definitely the man in this relationship."

I snorted. "Duh."

"You know, we wouldn't be in this mess at all if your navigation system still worked," said Catherine thoughtfully. "What happened to it, anyway? It looked like it was beat pretty bad."

_I got mad at it_, I thought.

"No idea," I said.

"Right."

It's been a few long minutes of silence before Catherine spoke again.

"Do you think it's going to be weird?" she asked.

"What is?" I asked, still concentrated on trying to remember street names and U-turns.

"That I'm coming," said Catherine like it was obvious.

"Oh," I said. "Not really. It's quite common that people bring plus one's to weddings, you see."

"I don't mean like that!" said Catherine, annoyed. "I meant about meeting Sherlock and everything. What if he doesn't like me?"

"Don't take it personally," I advised. "He hardly likes anyone. Just hope he's not in the mood for being rude. Well, ruder than usual, anyway."

"You're so useless," sighed Catherine and went back to fixing her hair and make-up.

"Will you stop that?" I said. "You look beautiful already."

I wasn't lying; she really was beautiful. Her red hair was curled, and her green dress made her eyes look even greener than usual. She wasn't wearing much make-up (she was never that kind of person), and her pale face shone like moonlight, especially when she smiled.

She smiled now. "Thanks, Riles," she said. "You're not too bad yourself."

"Oh, shut up," I said. "I hate this stupid dress."

"You hate every dress in the world."

"Only if I have to wear them," I said, pouting childishly. My expression suddenly became serious.

"What?" asked Catherine. "What is it?"

"We're here," I said, completely shocked. "We're actually in the right place."

"Oh!" blurted Catherine. "Really?"

"Yeah!"

"But how -"

"I don't know!" I squeaked as I parked the car.

"Well, time to go," concluded Catherine when the car was parked. "Ready?"

"Course I'm ready. I was born ready. Bring it on, bitch."

"I _mean_ it," said Catherine, exasperated. "It's the first time you see Sherlock since you made up, aren't you nervous?"

"Nah," I said. "No time for that, I've got stuff to do, people to meet, wedding food to eat, you name it."

She laughed. "That's why I love you," she said as she got out of the car.

It was very nice inside. The walls were yellow and the windows were big, which made the place feel like a sunny day out. Sherlock and John were just outside, greeting people. Next to John stood a woman with short blond hair in a wedding dress who must have been Mary.

"Sherlock!" I called, grinning in a way that couldn't be helped, approaching as quickly as I could on heels.

Sherlock's eyes locked on me. For a moment or so I couldn't determine what his expression meant, and I suspected he couldn't, either. Then he smiled at me, for the first time in years, and my grin only widened. I could sense Catherine following me slightly awkwardly.

"Riley," he blurted. "Uh, hello."

"Hi," I said, feeling the nervousness Catherine mentioned earlier well up now. "Hey, John," I added, turning my gaze to him.

"Yes, hello," he said, smiling and offering his hand, which I shook politely.

"And you must be Mary," I said, now turning to the bride with an outstretched arm. Mary shook it without hesitation and smiled. "I'm Riley, Sherlock's sister," I added.

"Oh, of course!" she blurted. "I should've realized, you look alike. Of course, Riley, he talks about you all the time!"

My smile faltered slightly. "He does?" I said.

"Oh, yes," confirmed Mary. "He said you were publishing a book?"

"Um, yeah," I said. "But never mind that, wedding are much more important. Congratulations, both of you."

"Thank you, dear," said Mary, still smiling brightly.

Catherine cleared her throat quietly behind me.

"Oh, and this is Catherine Johnson, my girlfriend," I quickly added, and now it was Catherine's turn to shake hands. Mary looked a little surprised, but only for a split second and quickly recovered. Sherlock was staring at her, his eyes wandering. I knew he was trying to figure out as many details on her as possible, but fortunately he had the grace to keep what he found to himself.

"Well, see you inside," I said, taking Catherine's hand and pulling her in.

"That went well, didn't it?" said Catherine.

"I think so," I agreed. "Could have been a lot worse, anyway."

"Did you notice Sherlock was staring at me after you introduced me?" asked Catherine self-consciously.

"Oh, don't worry about it, he does it every time he meets someone new," I said, then paused. "Sorry, I just realized that sounded like he's a dog."

"What, stares?" asked Catherine, confused.

"He's not just staring," I explained. "He deduces."

"Oh," said Catherine. "I wonder what he's got on me," she added, chuckling.

"Oh, no, you really don't," I said. "Honestly, you have no idea just how lucky you are that he didn't say anything. Most people get the urge to run away screaming or to hit him in the face with a chair when he starts talking."

"I doubt it," said Catherine. "Even if I hated that man, his face is not a face anyone wants to damage."

I narrowed my eyes at her. "If you're trying to make me jealous, it's working."

Catherine laughed. "Oh, please," she said. "I am entirely committed to you, my love. And anyway, you're the bi one, I'm gay. No boy action for me."

"Please stop talking," I said.

She kissed me on the cheek, earning us both strange glances from some of the older guests for the rest of the occasion.

The wedding went pretty much as any wedding would – well, nearly so. Sherlock went from being incapable of completing sentences to being professional to being offensive to being strangely emotional. Well, _he_ wasn't emotional. Everyone else was. John and Sherlock hugged. People were crying. _Catherine_ was crying. I was happy. Sherlock deserved being loved, but he always has been, even if he was blind to it. Mycroft, our parents, me, we always loved him, he just didn't care. What Sherlock always deserved and never had was the ability to love back, and seeing that he learned to love made me happier than ever before.

Of course, after that, someone was almost murdered. So maybe the wedding wasn't really like any other wedding. I wouldn't know, though – I haven't been to many weddings.

"Hey, Riles," Catherine said after all the excitement was over. "I've been thinking…"

"Yeah?" I said.

"Well," she hesitated. "Er…"

"Just spit it out, Cat," I said, beginning to worry.

"Okay, okay," she said. I rarely saw her this nervous. "I just wanted to ask something."

"Sure, what?" I asked, wondering where she was heading.

"Can the next wedding we go to be our own?" she asked, biting her lip, the way she always bit it when she was hesitant or nervous.

I didn't even have to think. "Yeah," I said, smiling. "Yes, of course."

Catherine exhaled in relief and grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And suddenly we were laughing, just laughing with joy, and I grabbed her face and kissed her, deep and true, forgetting that I didn't like kissing in public and not giving a damn about who was looking because none of that was worth my attention at the moment. Catherine was the only thing in the world for me. Just Catherine and me.

We broke apart, and Catherine wiped away a tear.

"That's a lot of crying in one day," I pointed out. "PMS?"

Catherine punched my arm. "Shut up, you arsehole," she said. She paused and looked just over my shoulder. "Why's Sherlock leaving?" she asked.

I turned around. Sherlock was indeed leaving, but I had no idea why. I turned back to Catherine with an apologetic look. "I'm sorry," I began.

"Go," she nodded, and I smiled gratefully. That was Catherine. She always understood. Hardly anyone ever did.

I hurried after Sherlock. By the time I caught up with him we were outside, and my steps were loud on the asphalt, so Sherlock heard me. He didn't stop or turn around.

"Sherlock!" I called. This time he turned around. "Sherlock, where are you going?" I asked.

Sherlock seemed at loss of words. That was how I knew something was very wrong.

"What's up?" I asked, concerned.

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again.

"Sherlock," I said, stepping closer to him until there was only a foot between us. "What's wrong? Is it because of the wedding?"

"I…" Sherlock began, then stopped again. "I don't…"

"You don't what?" I asked. "Sherlock, talk to me."

"John's married," he said finally.

I blinked. "Yeah," I said. "That was kind of the point of today. So?"

"So… so what about me?" asked Sherlock, and suddenly he looked twenty-five years younger, a child again, before he stopped being a brother.

"Sherlock," I said again, shocked. "You're not going to get left behind just because John has Mary, too, now. How can you possibly think that? Have you seen him during your speech? The man loves you!"

"It happens," said Sherlock helplessly.

"Why would it happen?" I asked, bewildered. "Sherlock, you're supposed to be the smart one, you must understand there's no reason for that to happen."

Sherlock shrugged.

I frowned. "You can't just leave your best friend's wedding early because you think he's going to care about you less now, since it's not true. And what about what you just said? About always being there for him? How can you always be there for him if you leave?"

"I'm just…" I never saw Sherlock this vulnerable, not since Redbeard. "I need to go," he said finally.

"Okay," I said, seeing there was no changing his mind. "Talk to me sometime, all right? Because I just kind of got engaged and I'm going to need my brother to be there for me."

Sherlock smiled sadly. "All right," he said. "Congratulations," he added, then turned around and walked away. I didn't try to stop him.

I walked back to Catherine, wondering if my brother was okay.


	6. Dying in a Gutter

Catherine wasn't looking good.

Catherine had her bad days. I had my bad days. That was part of rehab and we both knew it. But drunk, high or sober, I have never seen Catherine look this awful.

"I need some," she whimpered. Actually whimpered. Catherine never whimpered.

"No, you don't," I told her. "It's just a bad day, Cat. I promise, it will go away."

"No," said Catherine. "I _need_ some."

I sighed. "Catherine, no," I said. "We promised, remember? We said we wouldn't do this anymore. It will kill you eventually, Cat."

"I don't _care_, I just want some," begged Catherine. "I can't anymore, Riles. I can't."

"Yes, you can," I said. "I know you can."

"I can't," said Catherine. She was crying now. "Riley, please, I can't… I want… I need…" She broke into sobs.

She was crouching on the floor, so I crouched in front of her and hugged her. She sobbed against me, and I held her tight, feeling the tears well up in my own eyes. It hurt seeing her so helpless.

She pulled away eventually, her eyes red and swollen. She was sweaty. "Riley," she croaked. "Please. Just once. Just once and then I stop. We said once was okay."

She was right. When we first started rehab, we decided that we each deserved one time when we could pause the rehab and take some, but only once. If she was pulling her pause card now, she can never use it again.

"Okay," I gave in. "Okay, but only a little, and nothing strong. And I'm coming with you, you know how Zach loves to mess with the desperate ones."

Zach was our dealer. He wasn't known for his decency, and wouldn't think twice about giving someone more than they could handle. But there weren't many decent drug dealers around, and he did the job.

"Riley! Catherine!" he exclaimed when we walked into his warehouse, where he did his business. It was filthy and disgusting and infested with rats and cockroaches and what not, and the smell was almost unbearable. Zach frowned at Catherine. "You've looked better," he pointed out, and put on his famous wide grin. "How's rehab going?"

"Shut up and do what you're paid to do," snapped Catherine, handing him the cash; Zach only ever took cash.

He smirked. "More importantly, though, how are things in the bedroom? I always wondered – how _exactly_ do lesbians fuck?"

"Just give me the stuff," snarled Catherine darkly.

"Aye aye, Captain," he replied cheerfully. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a sealed plastic bag. "Have fun," he added when Catherine took the bag, as if she was a little girl to whom he just handed a ticket to an amusement park. "Come back soon!"

"Fuck you," said Catherine and turned to leave.

Before she could reach the door it flew open. A thuggish looking man stormed inside with a terrifyingly angry expression.

"Where the fuck is my money, Avery?" he fired at Zach.

"Man, I told you," said Zach, smiling cockily. "I ain't got your money, I'll have it next week. Now, how about some weed or something stronger, eh? On the house."

Without a word, the man pulled out a gun and emptied a bullet into Zach. Zach's head became a mass of red, and the dirty wall behind him was sprayed with blood and bits of brain and skull.

Catherine screamed.

The man turned to us. My heart stopped. "Sorry," he said. "Can't leave no witnesses." I nearly believed he really was sorry. Just nearly. Before any of us could do anything, he shot Catherine's chest. Before I could react, she was on the floor, limp and unmoving.

I wanted to scream, to cry, to reach her, but before I could do any of these things I heard another explosion and felt the third bullet tearing through my flesh, twisting around in my stomach, leaving a trail of agony in its wake. I gasped in pain. My knees gave in and I fell to the floor beside my fiancée. I could hear the man leave the room, but that information took a few seconds to sink in. My brain was working too slow, focusing on the gaping hole in me. But that didn't matter now. Only one thing mattered.

_Catherine_.

With unimaginable effort, I crawled toward where her face was, pale as death already, her green eyes staring without seeing. Her shirt was soaked with blood, and a puddle was beginning to form. It took even more effort to reach out and touch her neck – I was scared. I never felt this scared in my life. My fingers reached her neck, where I knew I was supposed to feel her heartbeat. But there was none. She was dead. Dead the moment she touched the floor, probably.

I couldn't think. I couldn't speak. I couldn't do anything. I couldn't even move. All I could do was repeat one useless, pathetic word in my head over and over again until it sickened me.

_No._

_No._

_No._

_No._

Because this was simply impossible. I knew bad things happened to good people, I always knew that, but not like this. Not to people like Catherine. Not to Catherine. Catherine was joy, Catherine was laughter, Catherine was love, Catherine was light. And now that light was gone, and I was all alone in the dark, bleeding and crying and wishing to go back to when rehab worked and no one was crying on the floor in my arms begging and no one was getting shot.

I knew I had to concentrate. I knew I had to stop thinking about it, to ignore the limp body of the love of my life, and to call for help. My mobile was in my pocket, within reach. I knew I needed to call for help. I knew that. I just didn't want to. I wanted to just lie there in a pool of my own blood and die, as slowly as it was going to take, because it could not be, it simply could not be, that there would be any life left worth living without Catherine. There was nothing else left.

I closed my eyes and hoped sleep would come, but as I lay there, shaking with pain, shock and grief, I thought of every other person in the world who wasn't currently in this filthy room. I thought of Catherine's parents. I thought of Piper and even Mila, even though I didn't like Mila that much. I thought of Thorin. I thought of Sherlock and John and Mary. I thought of Mycroft. I thought of my parents. I thought of the black day years ago when I lost Sherlock. I thought of every loss, every pain, every heartbreak, of every person in the world to ever have lived and to ever live, and thought I didn't want to add even one sorrow to this infinite list of anguish. If I died, there would be sorrow. The people I loved did not deserve that, not even for a moment.

The first thing I did after opening my eyes was rolling over to face away from Catherine. It hurt like hell, but I simply could not bear to look at her. With a fair amount of cursing and grunting and grimacing, I reached my phone, and with shaky fingers dialed a number every child knows. My mind was clouded with a fog thick as blood, and I couldn't register anything the woman on the other line was saying except "Please state your emergency."

"I've been shot," I choked through. "Abdomen. I don't think anything important was hurt, but the bleeding's not nice."

"Please stay calm, Miss," said the woman professionally with fake care in her voice. I knew it was fake, because I knew she got calls like that every other day, and no one could possibly truly care for so many strangers. "Where are you?"

I gave her the address. She said an ambulance was on its way and asked me to stay on the line and to keep talking. I hung up. If I wasn't going to make it, I didn't want to spend my last moment talking to a random stranger, as fake-caring as she was. I dialed a different number. It picked up almost instantly.

"Hello?" said the voice on the other end, so strangely calm. How could anything still be calm if such horror was happening?

I tried to say something, even though I had no idea what. All that came out was a pained sob.

"Riley?" said Sherlock, going tense. "Riley, what happened?"

"I've been shot," I managed to say weakly. "By a fucking stranger. In a fucking warehouse. _Fuck_, it hurts."

"Where are you?" he asked, and I thought I heard worry in his voice. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I was convincing myself he cared. I hoped I wasn't.

"I already called the ambulance," I said with a groan. "They said keep talking, but I didn't… I didn't want…" I couldn't complete that sentence, only partly because of the strangled cough I made, painting the last clean parts of my shirt dark red. "Shit," I muttered.

"What?" said Sherlock urgently.

"Coughing up blood," I murmured. "Doesn't matter."

"It actually does matter." Sherlock sounded scared now.

"No," I said quietly. "It doesn't."

There was a pause on the other line. I knew he was thinking about why I was saying that. I knew he figured it out.

"It's my fault," I said hoarsely. "She wanted to take some, just once, and I just _let_ her… If I just said no like I should have, she wouldn't have…" I couldn't complete that sentence, either.

"Riley, you have to concentrate," said Sherlock, somehow managing to sound urgent and gentle at the same time. "How long has it been since you were shot?"

"I don't know," I said. "Ten minutes, maybe."

"Okay, how long ago did you phone the ambulance?"

"Less. Maybe five."

Sherlock gave a sigh of frustration. "Damn it, Riley, why did you wait?" he snapped. "In these situations five minutes can be an awful lot of time." He sounded angry, but it was the right kind of angry. The kind of angry that proved he did care.

"I know," I said miserably. "I didn't want to phone at all."

Another pause. He figured out my trail of thoughts again.

"What happens if I just hang up?" I asked, the pain more vivid than ever. "What if I hang up and go to sleep? What happens?"

"You die," Sherlock whispered.

"I die," I agreed. "What happens then? Does it stop? Does the pain stop if I die?"

"Yes," said Sherlock, and he was still whispering. It was strange.

"What about everyone else?" I asked. "Do they stop, too? If I stop, do they stop?"

"No," said Sherlock. "They keep going without you. Riley, _don't hang up_. Keep talking. The ambulance should be there any minute, and you're going to be fine, I promise."

"I believe you," I said truthfully. "But I'm not sure I want to be fine."

"Riley, if you allow yourself to die, it would be incredibly selfish of you," said Sherlock harshly. "A world where you are dead is not a good world."

I smiled sadly. "Does that mean you'd miss me?"

"No, because you're not going to die, so there's no reason to miss you," replied Sherlock, but it wasn't so harsh, and I knew he would. And suddenly I didn't want him to ever miss anyone.

In the distance, I could hear the sirens. "Okay," I said softly. "They're coming now. Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll try not to die."

/

I couldn't remember anything that happened after that. I must have been sedated. All I knew was, I didn't die, which was astonishingly unfair because such a better person did. But after the ambulance, there was just sweet, dark sleep.

I woke in an uncomfortable bed surrounded by complicated looking medical machines. The wound was still there, and still hurt, but much less. I didn't know the time or the date, but judging by the light coming through the curtains it was daytime, which told me very little. There was a stupid needle stuck in my wrist and even stupider tubes on my face through which I was breathing. I decided not to take my chances with the needle (who knew what they were pumping into me), but removed the tubes. I may have been shot and lost my fiancée, but I could still breathe.

The complicated machines must have figured I was awake, because a doctor walked into the room shortly after that. She was smiling brightly, but not too brightly. Ask anyone who was just shot at and had his fiancée murdered and they'd tell you it was a fine line.

"How are you feeling, Miss Holmes?" she asked me.

"Like I was shot," I said. "Beats bleeding out in a ditch, though."

"Well, if your sense of humor is back that's definitely a good sign," said the doctor. "We're expecting you to make a full recovery, and quite shortly. You were very lucky, the bullet seemed to miss everything vital."

"Oh," I said. I didn't tell her that in no way did I consider this _lucky_. I didn't tell her _lucky_ meant being married to someone you love and live healthily and happily.

"Are you feeling up to visitors?" she asked kindly.

"Oh, crap," I swore, though lightly. I really didn't want anyone at the moment, but I figured it wasn't going to change any time soon, so I might as well just get it over with. "Sure, whatever."

Blurs seemed to have become a permanent in my life. Maybe it was a coping mechanism. Only therapy could tell me that, and I wasn't intending to see one. Over the hour after my awakening, I've seen Mum, Dad, Piper, Mila (I had to do something about Piper always dragging Mila around with her), and apparently about half the people I ever talked to since tenth grade. I didn't mean to turn it into a blur. Even though it was awkward and miserable, I wanted to have the memory of it so that when I'm feeling especially lonely and sulky I can tell myself to stop whining and remember all the people who love me who came to see me after the horrible episode at the warehouse. But it was blurry in my memory, no matter how hard I tried to clear the fog. It only cleared when Sherlock showed up with my dog.

"Thorin!" I exclaimed like a five year old when the huge black dog trotted toward me. I would have hugged him if it wasn't for the pain in my stomach. I would have clung to him as if all life in the universe depended on it, because that's simply the best thing you _can_ do in a bad situation. Hug your goddamn dog.

I looked up at Sherlock. He was giving Thorin a funny look, and I knew he was thinking of Redbeard. I knew he was suppressing his emotions as he always have, and I wanted to slap him and yell at him to stop, because what he was doing was wrong, and even though life sucked sometimes it wasn't worth shutting yourself away from all the good stuff as well, and I wanted to tell him that I missed the time he was human, before Mum and Dad put Redbeard down, because he was my best friend then, and I wanted that back so much it hurt even though it was so many years ago I could hardly remember it.

I didn't. Instead, I gave him a sad smile, and he didn't know what to do with himself because that was Sherlock, who went from acting as if he ruled the earth to being an awkward little boy.

"I didn't know you had a dog," he said.

"Oh," I said. "Sorry, I thought I told you."

"You didn't."

"I figured."

"Oh."

It was quiet for several moments. I didn't like it. The world shouldn't be so quiet.

"How are John and Mary?" I asked.

"Good," he said too quickly.

I sighed. "You haven't seen them since the wedding, have you?"

Sherlock grimaced. "No," he admitted. "Did you know Mary was pregnant?"

"No, I didn't. That's great."

And then it was quiet again. I scratched Thorin's head absent mindedly. "How are you?" I asked.

"The usual," he said with a shrug. "Though I don't think I'm the one you should be concerned about at the moment."

I smiled bitterly. "Who else is there left?" I asked him. "You, my dog, and some stupid girls I used to get stoned with but haven't actually talked to in months? I'm certainly not going to be concerned about _myself_ ever again, so who does that leave?"

"Mycroft?" suggested Sherlock.

I almost sniggered. Almost. "Mycroft doesn't need anyone to be concerned about him."

"And I do?"

"Yes."

I said it simply and truthfully, but he still seemed surprised. He didn't object, though.

"Hold my hand," I said softly.

"What?" asked Sherlock, puzzled.

"Just…" I sighed. "Hold my hand."

"Why?"

I nearly groaned with frustration. "Because Catherine is dead, and it sucks, and I need you to hold my hand right now because there's no one else to do it," I said, feeling the stupid, _stupid_ lump in my throat. "Just bloody do it before I start crying," I added when Sherlock didn't budge.

Hesitantly, Sherlock came closer and his hand found mine. It was soft and thin and comforting.

I wanted to thank him, but I couldn't speak. Despite my best efforts, I did start crying, but Sherlock didn't say anything about it, for which I was grateful. Thorin lay his head on my thigh in a loving doggish way, and I ran my fingers through his coal black fur until they were numb, and until my tears had dried up, and until the world became sluggishly slow, and until Sherlock left and took Thorin with him, letting me sleep.

When I woke up the next morning, there was a small plastic bag on the end table next to the bed which looked like an evidence bag. Inside was Catherine's engagement ring, which I wore along with my own. I wondered how long it would take before I found the will to remove the rings, because removing the rings would mean moving on, and I didn't know how to do that at the moment.

**A/N: That's where I'm supposed to say "Not sorry", but I actually am so I'm not going to say that. While we're at it, I'd like to thank everyone who read, followed, reviewed, whatever. You guys are one of the best bits of my life and I can never be grateful enough for your support.**


	7. Taking Things Easy

As it turned out, the bright-smiling doctor was right and the recovery time was exceptionally short. I was back home in a week. I was told to take things easy for a few weeks, and I had no intention to disobey that order because there was still some pain when I moved too quickly. I hated the pain. It kept me from forgetting.

I was also given lots of support groups brochures and details about therapists, but I ignored all these. I didn't need the help of strangers to get over Catherine. If I was going to need anyone's help, it would be from people I cared about, but I actually didn't want help at all. I could do this on my own, the way I always have.

The funeral was small and quiet. There weren't many people, but those who did arrive were people I knew would truly miss her. Her family was there, and so were some friends. I let her mother read the eulogy. The last thing I wanted at the moment was talking about Catherine, because that always brought on the inevitable lump in my throat. I didn't talk to anyone in the funeral, even though most people tried talking to me, being the deceased's girlfriend. I wanted to tell them I didn't know them, and that I knew they were suffering too but that I didn't care because they couldn't possibly miss her as much as I did, except for her parents. I wanted to tell them I didn't want to hear them saying how inspiring Catherine was to them, because they couldn't possibly begin to understand just how amazing a person Catherine was. I didn't. I just nodded politely and made excuses. I didn't want to pick a fight.

The first conclusions I came to after the funeral, were that I was not allowed to drown myself in sorrow; I was not allowed to become a zombie followed by Catherine's ghost because neither of us would have wanted that; I was not allowed to do anything that didn't mean moving on and getting over her death; I was definitely not allowed to use drugs to get over her; I was allowed to seek the consolation of people like Sherlock or even Mycroft, because I cared about them and was pretty sure they cared about me as well, but I was not allowed to tell them so directly; I was not allowed to force myself on them if they didn't want me; I was not allowed to make a fuss.

These rules were important, because I didn't want to lose myself in my grief. I didn't want to be looked at with pity. I didn't want to be the person who lost half of herself, because Catherine wasn't my other half. I was never incomplete. Catherine was not a part of me. Catherine was someone I attached myself to, and I could still be me if she was ripped away. I just needed some time to remember how.

So I did what the doctor said. For nearly a month I spent most my time at home, had casual meetings with family (family = Mum, Dad, Mycroft. Sherlock was apparently isolating himself until the rough patch was done, for which I didn't blame him one bit. I wanting nothing more than isolating myself, but it was impossible as apparently I _was _the rough patch), and tried staying out of troubles, which worked surprisingly well. People started reading my book, and I was certain it was only a tiny bit out of pity. It wasn't a bestseller, but it was doing well. The band was still a thing, even though I had to be sitting down when playing. Life went on.

The first time I talked to Sherlock after the night at the hospital, it was through a phone. I was used to that by now. So many important conversations I have had recently were done over the phone. But when he started talking I knew something was wrong. He sounded off, as if he only just woke up, which for any other person would have been considered normal (it was five in the morning), but not for Sherlock. I doubted his peculiar sleeping habits changed much, and anyway he never, ever sounded groggy when he woke up, a mystery I never solved. Also, he was rambling about absolutely nothing.

"Sherlock," I said sharply, cutting him off. "Are you stoned?"

"Wha? Oh. Er, yeah."

I was nearly overcome by the urge to bang scream in frustration, but I was afraid it wouldn't count as _taking things easy_. "Sherlock, where are you?" I asked, struggling to put on my shoes with only one hand, holding the phone to my ear with the other.

He told me.

"Okay, Sherlock, I need you to stay there, okay? Just stay there, I'm coming."

"Okay," he said. He was completely out of it. "Billy, Riley's coming. You remember Riley? I told you about Riley. No, no, she's the one with the book. No, that's _Mycroft_. Yeah. Don't be an idiot. Go away." He must have been talking to a bloke named Billy (my deduction skills never ceased to amaze me), and I didn't like it. It sounded like he was in a drug den. Drug dens were never good news for anyone.

"Okay, Sherlock, I'm going to hang up now," I said. "Stay calm and don't do anything until I'm there."

"I am calm," said Sherlock, sounding puzzled and irritated. "Why wouldn't I be calm?"

"No reason. Just stay there."

I hung up, feeling my heart beating too hard in my chest. _Goddamn it Sherlock, why are you so stupid?_ I wondered. _Haven't we both been through enough with this shit?_ At this rate, I was surprised Mycroft was still clean (cigarettes didn't count).

Out of habit, I didn't put my phone in my pocket yet but dialed another number. I was just about to call it when I realized I was trying to call Catherine. I held my breath, trying to stop myself from thinking. I wanted to throw the phone out the window, but I fought the urge off. I still needed that phone. It was a good phone, and Catherine wasn't going to ruin it. Catherine wasn't going to ruin anything if I could help it. I refused to let a ghost control my life.

Now, I've had my share in tense car rides. Few were as tense as this one. More than once I found myself honking at someone who definitely didn't deserve it, and nearly every time the car wasn't moving I was basically jumping in my seat impatiently, only stopping because of the dull ache in my side.

When I finally got there, it seemed like the right place. It wasn't _too_ bad, but it did seem like drug den material. Before I could go inside, however, I spotted a car parking right outside, very close to my own car. To my surprise, John walked out, and when I looked inside it, I saw Mary inside.

Unaware of my presence, John opened the boot of the car and took a tyre lever, tucking it into the top of his jeans. Walking silently closer (I had no idea why I was being quiet), I could hear them talking.

"What is that?" laughed Mary.

"It's a tyre lever," said John, stating the obvious.

"_Why_?" pressed Mary.

"'Cause there are loads of smackheads in there, and one of them might need help with a tyre," said John, nodding toward the house. "If there's any trouble, just go. I'll be fine."

He turned and started walking toward the house, but Mary got out of the car after him.

"Er," she said. "John, John, John, John."

I smiled at her, even though none of them saw me yet.

John stopped and turned to look at her.

"It is a _tiny_ bit sexy," she pointed out, and I tried not to laugh.

"Yeah, I know," said John nonchalantly.

He turned to the house again. This time he did see me.

"Riley?" he said, confused.

"Yep," I confirmed. "What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Looking for the neighbor's son," said John. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I've been trying to figure out myself," I said. "Sherlock called. He was _stoned_. And I mean properly, life-risking stoned, not the casual kind."

John's and Mary's shocked faces showed that I wasn't the only one who had no idea about Sherlock's renewed drug habit. I couldn't decide if that was good or bad.

"Are you sure?" asked Mary, concerned.

"Er, yeah," I said. "I asked if he was stoned, and he said he was. And he kept talking like he was."

"How do you know what someone on drugs sound like?" asked Mary, sounding quite curious.

I raised an eyebrow, a skill I took years to develop. "How do you think?" I asked, only slightly bitterly.

"Oh," said Mary, blushing slightly.

"Let's go," said John, ignoring the awkwardness. "Mary, stay here."

"Why?"

"You're _pregnant_."

"_Fine_."

"Don't worry," I said. "Drug dens really aren't as cool as people think, you're not missing out on anything."

Leaving Mary looking particularly annoyed, we walked across to the front door of the house, which had a large sign stuck to the front saying, "PRIVATE PROPERTY, KEEP OUT."

"Now that's just stupid," I said. "What are they going to do if the police finds out about this place? Tell them they can't come in because it's private property?"

"Probably just flee," John pointed out and banged loudly on the door. "Hello?" he called.

The door was opened by a dirty looking man with his hood pulled over his head, making me roll my eyes. I never got that. Why did people felt the need to cover their heads in these situations? Did it make them feel dark and mysterious?

"What d'you want?" he asked.

"Excuse me," said John, not really paying him any mind, and walked in right past him.

"Nah, nah, you can't come in 'ere!" said the man, turning to face him.

John looked around the room and I followed him inside. "I'm looking for my friends," he said. "Very specific friends, I'm not just browsing."

"You've gotta go," said the man. "No one's allowed 'ere."

John stopped pacing several steps away from the man and cleared his throat. "Isaac Whitney and Sherlock Holmes. You seen them?"

The man took a flick-knife out of his pocket and snapped the blade open, holding it toward John.

"Oh, I can see this going very wrong," I mumbled.

"I'm asking you if you've seen Isaac Whitney or Sherlock Holmes, and now you're showing me a knife," said John. "Is it a clue?"

"John," I said quietly. "There's a time and a place to be the cool hero. Now is not the time and here is not the place. Just shut up and let's go, we can figure something out without you getting stabbed."

He ignored me. I sighed in exasperation. Why didn't anybody ever _listen_?

The man gestured with his knife toward the still open door behind him.

"Are you doing a mime?" asked John, unimpressed.

"Go," he said threateningly. "Or I'll cut you."

"Ooh, not from there," said John calmly. "Let me help."

He stepped closer to the man, close enough for him to just stab him if he wanted to. The man's eyes widened.

"Now, concentrate," said John. "Isaac Whitney. Sherlock Holmes."

"Okay, you asked for it," said the man, and I wondered whether I was going to have to see that therapist after all.

Before the man could do anything, John's left hand lashed out, seizing the man's right arm and slamming his hand down onto his arm. The man cried out in pain as John wrapped his right hand around his neck and slammed him against the wall, then used his right foot to sweep the man's feet from under him. He slumped to the floor and John stepped back. The man chocked and groaned in pain. John bent down and picked the knife that fell to the floor.

"Right," he said, squatting next to the man. "Are you concentrating yet?"

"You broke my arm!" whined the man.

"What the _fuck_, John?" I hissed.

"No, I sprained it," said John, not looking at me, though he did glance around to see whether anyone else saw.

"It feels squishy!" said the man. "Is it supposed to feel squishy?" He held out his right arm to John. "Feel that!" he complained.

John squeezed his arm, making him groan again. "Yeah, it's a sprain," he said. "I'm a doctor – I know how to sprain people." He released his arm. "Now _where _are Isaac Whitney and Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't know!"

John gave him a look.

"Maybe upstairs," mumbled the man, giving in.

"There you go," said John, patting his leg. "Wasn't that easy?" He stood up and started walking toward the stairs.

"No," said the man grumpily. "It's really sore. You're mental, you are."

John pocketed the man's knife. "No. just used to better class of criminals."

I followed him, feeling quite reluctant. This wasn't right. You couldn't just walk into a house and attack the guy who tells you to leave, even if the place _was_ illegal. I wanted to tell John that, maybe slightly less politely, but there were more important things to focus on at the moment. It could wait.

We walked upstairs into a large room. Several people were lying or sitting on mattresses around the edge of the room. They were all definitely baked.

"You find Isaac, I'll get Sherlock," I told John. I wanted to hit the selfish bastard's face before anyone else had the chance. John nodded, and walked carefully around the room calling Isaac's name. I had a different approach.

My eyes scanned the faces quickly. I noticed one was younger than the rest and tapped John's shoulder to get his attention.

"Is that your neighbor's kid?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, and hurried to him, helping him sit up.

I couldn't see the face of the man lying next to Isaac, but I recognized the impossibly lean body. Incredibly gracelessly, I stomped my way toward him, pulling him by the dirty jacket he was wearing. His beautiful eyes were unfocused and his coal black hair was filthy, but I knew my brother's face.

"Oh," he said. "Hello, Riley. You took your time." He glanced at John. "Oh, hello, John. Didn't expect to see you here."

I didn't remember deciding anything. I didn't remember considering my actions. I didn't remember what was going on in my head at all. All I knew was, my hand lashed out on its own and slapped Sherlock across the face.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" I yelled at him. The people around were so high they hardly seemed to notice. "You selfish, egotistical, big headed _prick_!"

Sherlock winced. "Why do you care, anyway?" he muttered. "You do it, too."

"Are you _serious_?" I yelled. "Do you really think I'd go anywhere _near_ any of that stuff ever again? Sherlock Holmes, you fucking idiot, get up _right now_ and come with me!"

"Isaac," said John, sounding like he was about to explode. "Go outside, you'll see Mary in a car. After she tells you it's okay, get inside and wait for us."

Isaac mumbled something and stumbled out of the room.

John looked at Sherlock so furiously I half-expected them both to burst into flames. Neither of them did, but it seemed to be enough to sober Sherlock up.

I wasn't sure how long we were inside that room. Probably about two minutes. It was hard to tell with all the yelling. At some point, I became silent and let John empty his wide, _wide_ vocabulary at Sherlock, who just tried to yell louder. I didn't know why I stopped shouting. Probably because John was closer to Sherlock than I was and deserved his chance at scolding him.

Sherlock punched the fire escape door off and yelled, "For God's sake, John! I'm on a case!"

"A month!" said John, following him out. "That's all it took. _One_."

"I'm working," hissed Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How's that gonna look?"

"I'm undercover."

"No, you're not."

"Well, I'm not _now_!"

Mary drove her car quickly toward us, pulling alongside with a squeal of brakes.

"_In_," she said sternly. "All of you, _Quickly_."

"I'm going to take off now, actually," I said. "I'm not going to leave my car here, and Sherlock should be fine now –"

"I was fine before you came!" snapped Sherlock, and I tried to ignore the stinging sensation in my chest. I wondered if he would have said it if her wasn't high. He probably would have.

"No, you're coming with us to Bart's," said John. "Just drive after us and we'll meet there."

"Oh," I said. "Okay."

I was just getting into my car and preparing to deal with this surreal situation when the man who John assaulted earlier hurried toward us, cradling his hurt arm. Through her open window, I could see Mary sigh in exasperation before turning to look at him.

"Please," he said. "Can _I_ come? I think I've got a broken arm."

"No," said Mary. "Go away."

"No, let him," said John.

"Why?"

"Come with me," I said. "There's more space here, so your arm's less likely to get hurt any worse."

"Thanks," he mumbled and hurried to get in the car, sitting next to me. I didn't object. He may have been a junkie, but so was I, and he looked harmless enough.

It took a few minutes for us to actually leave with all the distractions. When I finally started driving, I found I didn't enjoy the silence as much as I usually did.

"So," I said. "What's your name?"

"Billy," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Billy," I said. "I'm Riley. Sorry about your arm. Although you really should have told us you knew where Isaac and Sherlock were."

"I didn't know he was called Sherlock," said Billy defensively. "He said his name was Shezza."

"Come again?" I nearly laughed. "He called himself _Shezza_? And you found nothing weird about that name?"

"Sherlock's not much of a common name, either," complained Billy.

"Fair enough," I decided. "What were you doing in there, anyway?"

"In a drug den?" asked Billy. "Drugs."

"I know _that_," I said, exasperated. "I meant why you were doing drugs in the first place."

Billy shrugged. "Mates talked me into it."

"Not very nice friends, then?"

"They're alright."

"Well, that's good, then," I said. "Ever thought of giving it up?"

Billy scoffed. "Easy for you to say, you're not a junkie."

"Nope," I agreed. "Used to be, though. Quite recently, too."

He looked surprised. "And you just _stopped_?"

"Basically," I said. "There were some tough moments…"

_"Riley, please," begged the Catherine in my mind, tears streaming down her face. "I can't… I want… I need…"_

"But it's just about getting past them," I finished, trying to shoo away the images in my head.

_A scream. One shot in the chest. Dead immediately. Her once bright eyes dim, her once fiery hair soaked in blood. Can't look. Don't even close her eyes. Pain is everywhere, burning, wounding, killing._

"You should at least try," I added. "You know this stuff is killing you."

"Yeah…" said Billy. "I'll think about it."

I smiled. "Good."

"So what was it for you?" he asked. "Why did you do it in the first place?"

I chuckled. "Well, remember that Shezza bloke?" I asked. "He's my brother. It was impossible to grow up with Sherlock Holmes without getting a little messed up along the way."

**Huge thanks to everyone who followed, favorited and/or reviewed! You make the world a better place, guys. Honestly.**


	8. I Never Liked Hospitals

I never liked hospitals. I never liked any medical institute. I knew they were necessary and I didn't directly avoid them, but I never _liked_ them.

As expected, it didn't change after spending a week in a hospital bed with a dead woman's ring on my finger. It didn't change after meeting Molly Hooper, either. Not because she was anything less than a wonderful person, which I discovered she was during our first meeting, but rather because of the circumstances leading to the introduction.

As it turned out, John wanted to be absolutely sure. I didn't remind him I had more experience than him in this specific field and could definitely tell when someone was shitfaced. He deserved the chance to enjoy the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes I wished I had that chance, too, but it rarely seemed to be so. Maybe I wasn't as stupid as Sherlock and Mycroft always thought, even though they hardly ever seemed to be wrong about anything.

We were in a lab in a hospital, which was too white and clean for my liking and made me uncomfortable. The mousy woman I learned was named Molly Hooper was running some tests on Sherlock's urine sample. The man himself stood nearby, looking sulky. Bill was sitting on a side bench and Mary was wrapping a bandage round his arm.

"I really don't think I'm supposed to be here," I whispered to John.

"It's fine," he said impatiently. I still felt out of place, but I didn't push the matter any further. No one cared about that at the moment, including myself.

Just then, Molly took off her gloves with two loud snaps. She was done with the tests.

"Well?" said John. "Is he clean?"

Molly threw her gloves down and turned to him. "Clean?" she repeated, and I thought that what was going to happen was going to be either amusing or tragic. Possibly both. You never really knew when it came to Sherlock.

Molly turned and walked over to face Sherlock, then slapped him hard on the face with her right hand. I couldn't stop myself from gaping, and hurried to close my mouth. Molly didn't look like someone who would slap anyone. She didn't look like she was capable of hurting anyone. Not like that man who shot Zach and-

Molly slapped him again just as hard, then once more with her left hand. Sherlock blinked and grimaced.

"How _dare _you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" Molly attacked. There were tears in her eyes, but her voice was steady and stern. I wondered how she did that and wished I could do that, too. "And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

I quickly made a mental note to not get on Molly Hooper's wrong side. I only saw her one time before, at John's and Mary's wedding, and I remember how she looked like when her… boyfriend? Tried guessing how someone was stabbed. She looked almost embarrassed and treated the poor man like one would treat an insufferable child. It was nothing like now. Now she was cold furious.

"Sorry your engagement's over," said Sherlock, rubbing his face, "though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of ring."

Fiancé, then, I decided.

"Stop it," hissed Molly. "Just stop it."

John stormed toward Sherlock. I couldn't see his face and could hardly hear him because his voice was amazingly low. I wondered how he could stop himself from shouting.

"If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me," he was saying, and I thought he could have talked to _me_, because I was his sister and because I knew what he was going through, and because I was alone and desperately needed someone to need me.

"_Please_ do relax," said Sherlock, sounding infuriatingly exasperated. "It's for a case."

"A ca –" John didn't like that answer. "What kind of case would need you doing this?"

"I might as well ask you why you've started cycling to work."

John shook his head. "No. We're not playing this game." He turned and walked away.

"Quite recently, I'd say," Sherlock went on, ignoring him. "You're very determined about it."

"Not interested."

"_I _am," said Bill, taking me by surprise. "Ow," he added.

"Oh, sorry," said Mary. "You moved. But it _is _just a sprain."

"Yeah," said Bill. "Someone 'it me."

"Huh?"

Bill turned his head and looked at John. "Eh, just some guy," he said, and I wondered why he didn't say more than that.

"Yeah, probably just an addict in need of a fix," John lied shamelessly, and I wondered why _I _didn't say anything.

"Yes," said Sherlock pointedly, looking directly at John. "I think, in a way, it was."

"Is it his shirt?" asked Bill.

"I'm sorry?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, it's the creases, innit?" said Bill.

Bill and Sherlock gazed at John's shirt, and I realized it wasn't just Sherlock deducing. Bill was deducing as well. _Great_, I thought. _I'm a Holmes and a guy with a foldable knife is smarter than me. I'm officially an embarrassment of the name_.

"The two creases down the front," Bill continued. "It's been recently folded but it's not new. Must have dressed in a hurry this morning, so _all_ your shirts must be kept like that. But why? Maybe 'cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there an' then dress in the clothes you brought with you. You keep your shirts folded, ready to pack."

"Not bad," said Sherlock, and I felt the tiniest bit of jealousy. Sherlock never complimented me. But it was childish of me to hope he would, so I ignored it.

"An' I further deduce…" Bill went on, "you've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

"No," said Sherlock as John looked down at his body. "He's _always_ walked like that. Remind me – what's your name again?"

"They call me The Wig," said Bill.

"No, they don't," said Sherlock knowingly.

"Well, they –" Bill fumbled for words awkwardly, "they call me Wiggy."

"Nope."

"Bill," confessed Bill, looking down. "Bill Wiggins."

"Nice observational skills, _Billy_." Sherlock's phone sounded a text alert. Sherlock pulled it out and read the message. "Ah! _Finally_."

"Finally what?" asked Molly.

"Oh, _excellent_ news," said Sherlock. "The _best_." He turned and headed for the door, still focused on his phone. "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on." Raising his phone to his ear, he glanced briefly around the room. "Excuse me for a second," he said as he left the room.

"I should, um, go," I said awkwardly. I really didn't like the situation.

"No, don't," ordered John.

"Why not?"

"Because your brother is on drugs!" snapped John.

"Well, I can't do anything about it, now can I?" I said. "If there's anyone who can get Sherlock to stop, it's not me."

"You still need to be here for him," said Mary, much more calmly than John.

I shrugged. "It's not like he wants me here," I said reasonably. "And anyway, I have a dog to feed."

"Can't Catherine do it?"

The world stopped at the mention of Catherine's name. _They didn't speak to Sherlock since the wedding_, I realized. _They don't know_.

"No," I said curtly.

"Why not?" asked John, frowning. "Just give her a call, say you need to stay here for a bit. She'll understand."

I couldn't do this. I couldn't tell them she was dead. Not here, not anywhere. This was wrong and messed up and I didn't want to have to deal with it. I wanted to be almost anywhere but that lab.

"You're wearing two rings," said Bill suddenly. "On one finger. Two rings."

I swallowed through the lump in my throat. Catherine's ring, the one I still couldn't take off my finger. It felt heavy on my hand, as if it was trying to drag me down into the earth back to its owner.

Mary was the first to understand. She covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. John's frown disappeared and a soft expression of shock replaced it. Molly must have seen us together at the wedding and put the pieces together, because she looked like she was just hit by a train. Bill looked down and didn't say anything.

"What happened?" asked Mary gently.

I didn't want to talk about it. I wanted to shake my head and leave. I could do that. I doubted anyone would have tried to stop me if I did. But I knew that even though they only met her once very briefly, they still deserved to know how she-

"She needed a fix," I said quietly. I didn't recognize my voice. It was too soft to be mine. "When we started rehab together, we agreed we could give up once if it's the last time ever we go anywhere near drugs again. So we went to our dealer, Zach. And he… he was such an arse… just… he was _vile_. So Catherine bought the stuff and paid him and we were just leaving when this guy bursts in, asking where his money was. And Zach was so _calm_. He didn't even stop being a cock for a second. So he just shot him in the head, and then he told us he was sorry, that he couldn't leave witnesses, and shot _us_. Catherine, he… he hit her in the chest. When I reached her she was already –" I stopped. I wasn't crying, but I couldn't say the word. The word was wrong. "He missed with me," I completed. "Missed everything important."

Mary opened her mouth, probably to say something comforting, but just then Sherlock walked back in. I couldn't be more grateful.

"John, we need to go," he said. "221B. Riley, you come, too."

"Okay," I said. It was strange. Why would Sherlock need me to come? But that didn't matter at the moment and could be dwelled on later. I just wanted to get the hell out of that damn lab.


	9. Unwise

**Oh god. I am so sorry. Honestly, I don't know what happened. I just sort of got into a fight with my laptop and then I was just procrastinating everything in the universe, and I'm so sorry I'm late. But I promise, I'm back on track now.**

"You've both heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course," said Sherlock. I was sitting in the back of a cab headed to Baker Street with Sherlock and John, though I still wasn't sure why.

"Yeah," said John. "Owns some newspapers – ones I don't read."

"Rich bloke," I confirmed. "So what?"

Sherlock frowned and looked around the cab and out of the back window. "Hang on – weren't there other people?" he asked.

"Mary's taking the boys home," said John. "We're taking you. You kind of insisted on Riley- we _did _discuss it."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows trying to remember. "People were talking, I was just saying the obvious stuff," he said with a shrug. "I must have filtered."

"I noticed," said John.

"I have to filter out a lot of witless babble," he explained. "I've got Mrs. Hudson on a semi-permanent mute, almost as permanent as Riley's."

"Oh, _lovely_," I sighed.

"Ignore him-" John began.

"He's high, I know," I grumbled. "I've _been_ high. You'd be surprised how difficult it is to say anything but the truth when you're stoned."

The rest of the ride is uncomfortably silent and it's a relief when the driver pulls over. Before even getting out, Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh. "_What_ is my brother doing there?" He got out and headed to the front door.

"So I'll just pay then, shall I?" John called after him tetchily.

"Don't be an idiot, we'll split it," I said, rolling my eyes at my brother's lack of tact.

"Nice to see at least _one_ Holmes being polite," complained John.

"Didn't anyone tell you?" I asked. "I'm not like them, I'm witless babble." I paid my half as quickly as I could with the nagging ache in my side and got out.

"He's straightened the knocker," Sherlock was saying as the cab drove off. "He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even _know_ he's doing it." He deliberately pushed the knocker to one side, making it hang crooked, before stepping inside.

"Why'd you do that?" asked John.

"Do what?"

"Nothing."

I followed Sherlock and John inside, trying not to remember the last time I was there. Closing the door behind me, I noticed they both stopped. I looked up and saw my eldest brother sitting on the stairs.

"Well, then, Sherlock," he said with a raised eyebrow. "Back on the sauce?"

"What are you doing here?" asked Sherlock.

"I phoned him," John enlightened him.

"The siren call of old habits," said Mycroft with a thin smile. "How very like Uncle Rudy – though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you." He turned his gaze to me. "Hello, Riley."

"Brother," I greeted.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "You phoned him," he said without looking at John.

"'Course I bloody phoned him," said John, and I suspected he was trying not to shout. If he was anywhere near as angry as I thought he was, he was doing a remarkable job.

"'Course he bloody did," snarled Mycroft. "Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

"We?" repeated Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes?" called a sing-song voice I didn't recognize from upstairs.

"For God's sake," hissed Sherlock furiously and stormed up the stairs, Mycroft sliding nearer to the wall to let him pass.

John blew out a breath as Mycroft leaned on his umbrella and rose to his feet. John walked up the stairs and I was about to follow him when Mycroft's voice stopped me.

"How have you been doing, Riley?" he asked in his usual, unkind voice. I hated his voice. When I was little, his voice made me think of dark tunnels. Now it just made me think of conspiracy theories concerning the government. The ones in which people ended up dead.

"I've been bloody awesome," I told him. "How's your diet?"

Mycroft's lips curled into a cold smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's fine," he assured me.

I sighed. "What do you want, Mycroft? We're not standing here because you were wondering how I've been."

Mycroft's smile vanished. "What were you doing in the den?" he asked me. No sugar coating. No easing into the problem. It was fine by me.

"Well, I was looking for somewhere to get a fix, see, and these things _are_ called drug dens, so I figured I might as well give it a try. Plus I thought I might like the company." I rolled my eyes. "What do you think? Sherlock called me and he was high. I just wanted to get him out of there and maybe yell at him, and John kindly assisted. I didn't fail rehab just yet, though I'm sure it can't be long now, don't worry." I smiled sweetly.

"Have you been going to meetings?" he asked with a fake casual tone.

"Nope," I said. "If anything, listening to idiots whining about how drugs ruined their lives would only make me need them more."

"How do you expect to avoid the temptation if you do nothing?" asked Mycroft sternly.

"Well, it _is_ how I handle most of my problems," I pointed out. "And so far, it's worked out okay." _Except for when she begged and cried and you just let her even though you knew it would hurt her and now she's-_

"Why didn't you contact the therapist whose number I gave you?" asked Mycroft.

I didn't ask him how he knew I hadn't contacted him. "Because no therapist in the world can change anything," I snapped. "I've got an ugly fucking scar in my stomach to remind me that."

"Yet you make no attempts at removing the reminders," Mycroft continued mercilessly. Couldn't he _see_ I would be better not talking about it? "You're still wearing Catherine's ring. You should take it off if reminders are what bothers you."

"When did _you_ become an expert in grief?" I asked him. "You didn't mourn a day in your life. You're stuck too deep in that enormous head of yours to care about anyone other than Sherlock and yourself, so shut up and don't tell me how to live. Speaking of Sherlock, I _think _you wanted to talk to him as well, though I could be wrong. After all, I always am, aren't I?" Hating Mycroft more and more by the second, I walked past him and went up the stairs and into Sherlock's flat, where the man in question was curled up in his chair. It was quite strange how well he fit in it. In the kitchen, John stood with a man and a woman I didn't know.

"Some members of your little fan club, do be polite," explained Mycroft, apparently having walked in behind me. I could practically _hear_ the thin fake smile on his smug face. "They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat." He walked deeper into the flat. "You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."

"I do not _have _a drug habit," said Sherlock irritably.

"Oh, you don't?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, that's a relief. I guess everyone should go home now, because Sherlock doesn't have a drug habit after all."

"Hey, what happened to my chair?" asked John.

I looked away from him and at the pair of strangers in the kitchen. "Hi," I offered.

"You're Riley Holmes, aren't you?" the bearded man piped up, looking more excited than any normal person should be when meeting anyone who wasn't the bloody Queen of England.

"Uh, yeah," I said. "You know that because…?"

"Oh, I know all about Sherlock!" the man said excitedly. "I'm Anderson, by the way. Philip Anderson." He offered his hand, and I shook it, rather reluctantly.

"I'm Benji," said the woman next to him, and I shook her hand as well.

"Nice to meet you," I said uncertainly, and turned my attention back to the main conversation.

"What have you found so far?" Mycroft was asking. "Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing _to _find!" snapped Sherlock from his chair.

"Your bedroom door is shut," Mycroft noted, turning toward the corridor. "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mothers bothers to do so on this occasion?"

"Okay, stop! Just stop," Sherlock yelled, getting out of his chair as Mycroft's hand rested teasingly on his bedroom door's knob. "Point made."

"_Jesus_, Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Have to phone our parents, of course," said Mycroft nonchalantly, walking back into the kitchen. "In Oklahoma. Won't be the first time their offspring's substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing."

"_Once_," I muttered.

Sherlock sighed and got to his feet, walking slowly into the kitchen. "This is not what you think, this is for a case," he said calmly, his face shining with sweat.

"What case could possibly justify this?" asked Mycroft softly.

"Magnussen," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft's light smile dropped, as if on cue.

"Charles Augustus Magnussen," said Sherlock sharply.

Slowly, Mycroft turned to face Anderson and Benji. "That name you think you may have just heard – you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you – on behalf of the British security services – that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply – just look frightened and scuttle."

Anderson quickly ushered Benji out of the kitchen and followed her onto the landing, closing the door behind him. Mycroft turned to me.

"Don't bother," I said, unimpressed. "Mum would kill you if you tried locking me up."

I supposed he figured it would just hurt his pride to reply to that, so he turned to John instead. "I hope I won't have to threaten you as well," he said almost kindly.

John raised an eyebrow. "Well, I think we'd both find that embarrassing."

Sherlock snorted and I chuckled despite myself.

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft told Sherlock sternly.

"Oh, you mean he's _yours_," Sherlock hissed back. It sounded almost like an accusation.

"You may consider him under my protection."

"I consider you under his thumb."

"If you go against Magnussen," said Mycroft, dead serious, "then you will find yourself going against _me_."

"Okay. I'll let you know if I notice," said Sherlock too lightly. I didn't like the sound of what Mycroft was saying one bit. Sherlock strolled toward the door. "Er, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah." He opened the door. "Bye-bye."

Mycroft walked around him then turned to face him. "Unwise, brother mine," he said coolly.

If he was going to say anything else, he was interrupted. Sherlock seized Mycroft's left arm just below the elbow. Twisting his arm behind his back, he slammed Mycroft face-first into the wall beside the kitchen door. Mycroft cried out in pain.

"Brother mine," said Sherlock, scarily calm, "don't appeal me when I'm high."

"Mycroft," I said quickly, alarmed. "I hate you, but it would really suck if my brother killed my other brother. Just _go_."

Mycroft pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip, holding his left arm in pain. He looked like he was about to say something, at which point John intervened.

"_Don't_ speak, just leave," he advised. He picked up Mycroft's umbrella from where he dropped it and handed it to him with an awkward cough. Taking John's advice, Mycroft snatched it and left, without uttering another word.

I sighed. "I thought they just kind of skipped the physical fighting stage," I mumbled and looked at Sherlock. He was filthy and sweaty. He wasn't in his right mind, obviously. He attacked Mycroft, which was bad even if I hated him. What the hell kind of _case_ had Sherlock believing it was alright for him to hurt himself like that?


	10. All the Horrible People

"Er, Magnussen?" asked John after Mycroft has left.

"What time is it?" asked Sherlock, not paying him any mind.

"Around eight," I told him after a quick glance at my watch. The rings on my finger caught my eye as I did so, but I shoved it to the back of my mind for later.

Sherlock made a disgusted sound. "I'm meeting him in three hours. I need a bath." He began walking out of the kitchen toward a hallway.

"It's for a case, you said?" reminded him John, who clearly wasn't going to drop the subject so quickly.

"Yep," confirmed Sherlock.

"What sort of case?"

"Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in," replied Sherlock smoothly.

"You trying to put me off?"

"God, no," countered Sherlock. With his hand on a door's knob (must have been the bathroom's), he stopped and looked at John. "I'm trying to recruit you. Both of you."

"Wait, _both of us_?" I repeated, confused. "What do you mean _both of us_?"

Sherlock gave a small smile and walked into the bathroom, leaving my question hanging in the air. "And stay out of my bedroom!" he called from inside.

There was barely a moment of quiet before John let out, "What do you think?"

"That Sherlock Holmes is a hypocrite," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "Last time I was here he was an ass about me doing it, and, well…" I trailed off, knowing there was no need for me to finish that sentence.

"What kind of a case could possibly justify this?" muttered John.

"There _is_ no case to justify it," I told him. "Consciously or not, Sherlock was using a case as an excuse. But that's even better than him doing it solely for a case, because that means there's a real reason. To help him, we just need to figure it out and help him deal with it."

Just then, Sherlock's bedroom's door opened. A woman's attractive face peeked out before stepping outside fully, wearing nothing but underwear and what appeared to be Sherlock's shirt. She didn't look nearly as flustered as I thought she should have looked when caught wearing that, especially by a man.

"Oh, John, hi," she said with a smile and a soft laugh. John just stared at her open-mouthed. I had to resist the urge to kick him, reminding myself I really didn't know him well enough for that. "How are you?"

"Janine?" asked John in disbelief.

"Sorry," she offered meekly. "Not dressed." She looked at me, and her smile widened. "Hi, I'm Janine, obviously," she offered her hand, and I shook it, trying to pretend this was completely normal a situation.

"Hi, I'm Riley," I murmured.

"Oh!" Janine's eyes lit up with realization. "I should have realized – Sherl talks about you all the time!"

John and I exchanged looks. His expression alone was enough to tell anyone he was just as surprised as I was about this. Was Sherlock… dating? An actual normal person? An image of Janine in a lilac dress came to my mind, and I realized she was maid of honor at John's wedding.

"Has everyone gone?" she asked, walking into the kitchen. "I heard shouting."

"Yes, they're gone," said John.

Janine glanced at her watch. "God, look at the time," she sighed. "I'll be late." She went over to the worktop and picked up a coffee percolator, looking quite at home. "Sounded like an argument," she added. "Was it Mike?"

"Sorry, who?" I asked her, because the only person who could ever, at all be called _Mike_ was someone who would really, very much _not_ appreciate the nickname.

"Mike, yeah," said Janine, distracted. "Your brother? They're always fighting."

"That's _Mycroft_," I corrected, wondering why I was having such a hard time holding back from snapping.

"Do people actually call him that?" she laughed.

"Well, seeing as it's his name."

"Huh! Oh, John, could you be a love and put some coffee on?" she asked walking back into the hallway.

"Sure, right, yeah," he said, as if putting coffee on for Sherlock's _girlfriend_ was okay.

"Thanks," she said, and then stopped, putting her hand on John's shoulder. "Ooh, how's Mary? How's married life?" she asked with a smile too wide to be honest.

"She's fine," John said. "We're… both fine, yeah." He turned and walked toward a cupboard, only to be stopped by Janine.

"Oh, it's over there now," she said, pointing at another cupboard. "Where's Sherl?"

"Taking a bath," I said, deciding not to comment about the nickname. There was plenty of time for me to tease Sherlock about it later. Maybe after he goes back to being Sherlock and remembers he doesn't _do_ girlfriends.

"Perfect," said Janine with a smile I didn't like. She walked to the bathroom door. I turned away and heard her calling out, "Morning! Room for a little one?" I heard Sherlock laugh. I heard splashing water. The bathroom door closed.

"That is so wrong," I whispered.

"Yes, it is," agreed John quietly.

"Are we horrible people for saying Sherlock having a girlfriend is wrong?"

"Quite possibly."

"Am I a horrible person for thinking it's kind of disgusting that I need to witness it?"

John made a non-committed sound.

Not quickly enough for my liking, Sherlock and Janine were both out of the bathroom. A fully dressed Janine was in Sherlock's bedroom and I was wondering how she could do that if she was just complaining about being late, and Sherlock seemed happy to be his clean, dramatic self again.

"So, it's just a guess, but you probably have questions," he said, pulling a black jacket over his white buttoned shirt.

"Uh-huh," I said in a voice too high pitched to be my own.

"Naturally," said Sherlock, and he didn't sound as patronizing as usually, which was good. Though not good enough to distract me.

"You have a girlfriend?" asked John.

"Yes, I have." Sherlock sat down in his chair.

John grinned.

"Now, Magnussen," said Sherlock, returning to the supposedly important subject. "Magnussen is like a shark – it's the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium – stood up close to the glass. Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes… that's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"Why do you keep saying his full name?"

"Please do concentrate, Riley."

"Right, sorry."

"You have a girlfriend," John suddenly said.

"Sorry?"

"Girlfriend, you."

"What? Yes! Yes, I'm going out with Janine. I thought that was _fairly _obvious."

"Yes, well… yes," said John, "but, I mean, you, you, you… are in a relationship?"

Sherlock blinked. "Yes, I am."

"You and Janine?"

"Mmm, yes. Me and Janine."

"Care to elaborate?"

Sherlock took a breath, puffing his cheeks before replying, "Well, we're in a good place. It's, um… very affirming." He smiled.

"You got that from a book," accused John.

"Everyone got that from a book."

Janine reentered the room with her white purse. "Okay, you three, behave yourselves," she warned as she sat down on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock's smile was strange to see. It seemed… _real_. But it seemed wrong at the same time, because it was full of so much emotion Sherlock never showed unless it got him something. "And you, Sherl, you're gonna have to tell me where you were last night."

"Working," Sherlock lied.

"_Working_. Of course. I'm the only one who knows what you're really like, remember?"

I frowned at that. It was a very deep frown and it took me a moment to remember I wasn't supposed to frown at displays of affection because that was rude.

"Don't you go letting on," Sherlock flirted.

"I might just, actually," Janine flirted back softly. She tore her eyes away from Sherlock to look at John. "I haven't told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her."

"Yeah, you probably will," said John confidently.

"But we should have you two for dinner really soon!" she declared excitedly. "Oh, and you too, Riley!"

"Yeah!" agreed Sherlock in a very non-Sherlock way.

"My place, though – not the scuzz-dump!" She punched Sherlock's arm and they both laughed.

"Great, yeah!" said John. "_Dinner_! Yeah!"

"Sure," I mumbled.

"Oh, I'd better dash," Janine said standing up. "It was great to see you, and meet you."

"Yep," I said uncomfortably.

"You too," John managed.

"You better watch over these two, Riley," she joked. "Make sure they don't break anything."

"Uh, no, bad idea," I objected. "Not a responsible person."

Sherlock rose from his seat to open the door for Janine. They flirted, too quietly for me to hear, before Janine finally left.

"You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he's _so_ much more than that," Sherlock started immediately. "He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power." He sat at the dining table and opened his laptop. "I'm not exaggerating when I say he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail, and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name," he turned the screen of the laptop to show us a blueprint and photograph of what seemed to be a very expensive house, "is Appledore."

"Dinner," said John.

"Sorry, what, dinner?" asked Sherlock, puzzled.

Me and Mary and Riley, coming for dinner… with… wine and… sitting."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment before saying, "Seriously? I've just told you that the Western world is _run_ from this house and you want to talk about _dinner_?"

"Fine, talk about the house," John yielded.

With an exasperated sigh Sherlock resumed his speech. "It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world." He glanced over his shoulder to look at us. "The Alexandrian library of secrets and scandals – and _none _ of it is on a computer. He's smart – computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copies in his vault," he pointed at the rotating blueprint on the screen, "underneath that house; and as long as it is, the personal freedom of _anyone_ you've ever met is a fantasy."

"Well, isn't that a happy thought," I mumbled warily.

There was a knock on the door, followed by an "Ooo-ooh!" before the door opened. A kind looking old lady was at the door, pointing back down the stairs. "Oh, that was the doorbell, couldn't you hear it?" she asked.

"It's in the fridge," replied Sherlock. "It kept ringing."

"Oh, that's not a _fault_, Sherlock," she scolded.

"Who is it?" asked John.

The woman hesitated. I tensed up, and I could practically feel John and Sherlock do the same. Something felt wrong.


	11. A Man I Hate

"You said three hours," I hissed at Sherlock angrily. The old lady who I learned was the legendary Mrs. Hudson was downstairs, telling our company to come up.

"It _was_ three hours," Sherlock hissed back. I wanted to say something snippy and childish in retort, but before I could the door opened again. Three men with earpieces walked into the flat. Sherlock sighed and unfolded his arms. "Oh, go ahead," he said warily. He spread his arms, allowing one of the men to search him. The second walked over to John and the third raised his eyebrows at me. Rolling my eyes, I let him search me as well, making a mental note to demand payment next time Sherlock drags me into one of his shenanigans, wincing slightly when the man's hand touched my stomach.

"Sir?" said the man in front of John.

"Can I have a moment?" asked John hesitantly.

"Oh, he's fine," said Sherlock dismissively.

The man began frisking John.

"Er, I…" John protested. "Right, I should probably tell you…" Reaching into John's jacket, the man pulled out Bill's flick-knife. "Okay, I…" John pointed at the knife. "That." The man pulled John's jacket open. "And…" The man pulled the tyre lever from John's jeans and gave him a stern look. "Doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you," joked John. The man didn't look amused.

"I can vouch for this man," Sherlock came to John's defense. "If you know who I am, then you know who _he_ is, don't you, Mr. Magnussen?" I followed Sherlock's gaze to see a middle-aged man in a suit walk in. "I understood we were meeting at _your _office."

The man who was apparently Magnussen examined the room for a moment before replying, "This _is _my office."

I never thought you could make anyone hate you with just one sentence, but that man proved me wrong.

"Well, it is _now_," Magnussen corrected himself. Picking up a newspaper from the table, he sat down on the sofa.

"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters," said Sherlock professionally. Magnussen ignored him, focusing on what appeared to be how uncomfortable the couch was. His gaze remained on the newspaper in his hand. "Some time ago you… put pressure on her concerning those letters," Sherlock continued. Magnussen looked up at him. "She would like to get those letters back." Magnussen just continued looking at him, saying nothing. "Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind…" he broke off. Magnussen gave a quiet snort. Sherlock let out an exasperated huff of air. "Was it something I said?"

"No, no," said Magnussen. "I- I was just reading." He adjusted his glasses. "There's rather a lot. Redbeard."

I frowned. Sherlock blinked, his mouth opening slightly. Sherlock wasn't kidding when he said Magnussen knew everyone's pressure points. I wondered if he knew mine.

"Sorry," said Magnussen, shaking his head. "S-sorry. You were probably talking?"

"I…" Sherlock started, then paused. The mention of Redbeard threw him off. I hated Magnussen more. Sherlock cleared his throat. "I've been trying to explain that I've been asked to act on behalf of –"

"Bathroom?" asked Magnussen, cutting Sherlock off.

"Along from the kitchen, sir," replied one of the security men.

"Okay," said Magnussen.

"I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," said Sherlock firmly. "I'm aware that you do not make copies of sensitive documents –"

"Is it like the rest of the flat?" asked Magnussen.

"Sir?" asked the security man, unsure of his meaning.

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Maybe not, then."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" asked Sherlock.

Magnussen met his eye for a moment, then gazed out the window. "Lady Elizabeth Smallwood," he reminisced. "I _like_ her." He looked back at Sherlock, popping his lips.

"Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" asked Sherlock again.

"She's English, with a spine," Magnussen continued, disregarding Sherlock completely. He lifted his right foot and put it against the side of the coffee table, pushing it away from him. As he stood up, the security man besides Sherlock took the fire guard from the fireplace. "Best thing about the English," said Magnussen, his piercing gaze switching from Sherlock to John to me, "you're _so _domesticated. All standing around, apologizing," he walked in between Sherlock and John toward the fireplace, "keeping your little heads down." I heard him unzipping his trousers. I suppressed a sigh when I realized what he was doing. "You can do what you like here. No one's ever going to stop you." I closed my eyes and winced slightly when I heard his piss hit the fireplace. "A nation of herbivores. I've interests all over the world, but, er, everything starts in England. If it works here," he jiggled up and down before zipping his trousers, "I'll try it in a _real_ country." I opened my eyes now. The man who searched me handed him packet of wet wipes. "The United Kingdom, huh?" Magnussen added, wiping his fingers. "Petri dish to the Western world. Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them." He dropped the used wet wipe to the floor. "Goodbye. Anyway," he pulled the edge of some documents out of his jacket to show Sherlock, "they're funny." Smirking, he left the room, followed by his men.

"_Jesus_!" John swore furiously.

"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing that he did?" asked Sherlock.

"There was a moment that kind of stuck to mind, yes," replied John sarcastically.

"He showed us the letters," I said, speaking for the first time since Magnussen entered the room.

Sherlock beamed at me, and I felt something lift in my chest. It was stupid, of course. I wasn't a little girl. My older brother smiling at something I said shouldn't mean anything. Except this was the first time I could remember Sherlock seemed almost _proud_. It was almost difficult to admit it to myself, but Sherlock being proud of me will always, no matter how ridiculously events my turn out, be a big deal.

"…Okay," said John, who was too upset about a grown man taking a piss in his best friend's fireplace to care about letters. Not that I could blame him.

"So he's brought the letters to London – so no matter _what_ he says, he's ready to make a deal," Sherlock was already talking again. "Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weakness – the 'pressure point', he calls it." He picked up his coat from a chair and put it on. "So, clearly he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat. _And_, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."

"How- how do you know his schedule?" stuttered John.

"Because I do. Right – I'll see you tonight. I've got some shopping to do." He headed out the door and down the stairs. I followed him, stopping at the top of the staircase.

"What's tonight?" called John.

"I'll text instructions," Sherlock called back.

"Yeah, I'll text _you_ if I'm available."

"You are! I checked!"

I laughed at John's exasperated expression.

"Don't say anything," he snapped at me as he walked out. I just grinned at him and followed.

"Don't bring a gun," Sherlock ordered John downstairs.

"Why would I bring a gun?" asked John, bewildered.

"Or a knife, or a tyre lever," Sherlock carried on. "Probably best not to do any arm-straining, but we'll see how the night goes." Sherlock raised his arm to an approaching taxi, which slowed to a halt next to him.

"You're just assuming we're coming along?" asked John, sounding annoyed.

"Don't make it about the both of us, I'm happy to go," I hurried to defend myself. "I've been sitting on my arse for weeks with no purpose other than feeding my dog."

"Well, no one said _I_ was coming," John insisted.

"Time you get out of the house, John," scolded Sherlock, unfazed. "You've put on seven pounds since you got married, and the cycling isn't doing it." He opened the cab door and got in.

"It's actually _four_ pounds."

"Mary and I think seven," said Sherlock through the half-open window. "See you later." He closed the window, and the cab drove off.

John looked at me, perplexed.

"Don't look at me, I didn't teach him his manners," I said. "Come to think of it, no one did. That probably explains some things."

John rolled his eyes, then looked at me seriously. "You sure you're up to coming?" he asked, and I knew he meant the mark on my stomach that was once a gaping, bleeding hole.

"Yep," I said. "The best action I've had in two weeks was when Thorin knocked over a cup of juice. Thorin as in my dog, not the dwarf," I added when John gave me a funny look.

"If you say so," he looked uncertain, but I waved it off. I was tougher than I looked, and if a bullet wound gets me down for a bit, well, what could I say? No one was perfect.


End file.
